HOW-DeKCONTUBMRN-AND- 
PRRSON-WHITNeY-  KEPT- 

>  ILLUSTRKT6D' 


W.  H.  H.  MURRAY 


jj    IUBRARY     f 

tMWVCRsmr  OF 

CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO       J 


HOW 

Deacon  Tubman  and  Parson  Whitney 
Kept  New  Year's 

And    Other    Stories 


BY 

W  .      H.      H.      MURRAY 


BOSTON 

CUPPLES     &     KURD 

9_/  Boylston  Street 

1888 


Copyright,   1887,  by   Charles   T.    Walter 
All  rights  reserved 


The  Republican  Press,  St.  Johnsbury,  Vt 
Elcctrotyped  by  C.  J.  Peters  &  Son,  Boston 


CONTENTS 

JIo-iu  Deacon  Tubman  and  Parson   Whitney  Kept 

JVeiv  Tear's 
The  Old  Beggar's  Dog 

The  Ball 

Who   Was  Pie  ? 


I25 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


HOW  DEACON  TUBMAN  AND  PARSON  WHITNEY 
KEPT   NEW   YEAR'S 

( Illustrated  by  THOMAS  WORTH  ) 

PAGE 

Vignette  Initial — "New  Tear's,  eh  ?"         .         .         .         .  n 

"Whafs  the  matter  with  the  pesky  thing?"    .        .        .  •    H 
li Miranda  belonged  to  that  sisterhood  commonly  kno-t.vn  as 

spinsters"       .........  16 

Miranda's  chirography — "A  Happy  Net/a  Tear"          .  .     18 
"Ha,  none  of  that,  you  woolly-coated  rogue,  you"      .        •  21 
"I  want  to  talk  -vith  you  about  the  church''''         ...  28 
"Tell  the  folks  that  you  wont  be  back  till  night"    .          .  -33 
•'It  tuas  found  that  the  parson  could  steer  a  sled"       .         .  35 
"Little  Alice  Dorchester  begged  him  to  stay  "         .         .  -37 
"Old  Jack -Mas  a  horse  of  a  great  deal  of  character'1'1    .  .     4° 
"Jfilloti1,  Deacon,  ain't  you  going  to  shake  out  old  shamble- 
heels  to-day  ?"  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         •  -44 

"  Jack  i\>as  going  nigh  to  a  thirty  clip  "  5° 


6  List  of  Illustrations 

"Go  it,  old  boy  .'" 54 

Tail  ficce      ..........         58 

II 

THE  OLD  BEGGAR'S  DOG 

(  Illustrated  by  A.  B.  SIR-TE  ) 

Vignette  Initial — '"Trusty"         ,          .          .          .          .          .  61 

"The  old  man  and  his  dog  were  constant  companions"  .  .     66 

"He  7t'«5  teaching  the  dog  a  ne~v  trick"  j.j 
"//  ivas  to  the  honor  of  the  cror.'d  that    they  hooted  the 

officer  roundly"           .         .         .         .         .         .         .  •     8$ 

Tail  />iece      ..........  94 

III 

THE  BALL 

(  Illustrated  by  A.  B.  SHUTE  ) 

Vignette  Initial — "//  ivas  evening"      .....  97 

"The  Lad  began  to  play"           ......  104 

"The  C,od  of  Music -Mas  there" 108 

"Even  the -Matters  caught  the  infection"           .         .         .  114 

"The  music  stopped -Mith  a  snap"          .         .         .          .          .  118 

Tail  piece            .........  124 


List  of  Illustrations  7 

IV 

WHO  WAS  HE 

( Illustrated  by  J.  H.  SNOW  ) 

Vignette  Initial — "John  Norton  ivatched  the  approaching 

fire"      .          .         .         . 127 

''A  deer  suddenly  sprang  from  the  bank"      ....  137 

"Past  mossy  banks  ivJiere  the  great  eddies  •whirled''''         .  145 

^- Come  ashore — you  and  your  companion"    ....  153 

" 'The  four  sat  in  silence  by  the  fire"  ....  174 

Tail  piece         ..........  196 


How  Deacon  Tubman  and  Parson 
Whitney  Kept  New  Year's 


How  Deacon  Tubman  and  Parson 
Whitney  Kept  New  Year's 


EW  Year's,  eh?"  exclaimed 
Deacon  Tubman,  as  he 
lifted  himself  to  his  elbow 
and  peered  through  the 
frosty  window  pane  toward 
the  east,  where  the  color 
less  morning  was  creeping 
shiveringly  into  sight. 
"  New  Year's,  eh?"  he  repeated,  as  he  hitched 
himself  into  an  upright  position  and  straightened 
his  night-cap,  that  had  somehow  gone  askew  in 
his  slumber.  "  Bless  my  soul,  how  the  years  fly  ! 
But  that's  all  right ;  yes,  that's  all  right.  No  one 
can  expect  them  to  stay,  and  why  should  we? 
there's  better  fish  in  the  net  than  we've  taken  out 
yet,"  and  with  this  consolatory  observation,  the 
deacon  rubbed  his  head  energetically,  while  the 


12  Hoiu  Deacon  Tub-man  and 

bright,  happy  look  of  his  face  grew  brighter  and 
happier  as  the  process  proceeded.  "Yes,  there's 
better  fish  in  the  net  than  we've  taken  out,"  he 
added,  gayly,  "  and  if  there  isn't,  there's  no  use 
of  crying  about  it."  With  this  philosophical  ob 
servation,  he  bounced  merrily  out  of  bed  and  into 
his  trousers. 

I  say  Deacon  Tubman  bounced  into  his  trousers, 
but,  to  be  exact,  I  should  say  that  he  bounced  into 
half  of  them  ;  and,  with  the  other  half  trailing  be 
hind  him,  he  skipped  to  the  window  and,  putting 
his  little,  plump,  round  face  almost  against  the 
pane,  gazed  out  upon  the  world.  Everything  was 
bright,  sparkling  and  cold,  for  the  earth  was  cov 
ered  with  snow  and  the  clear  gray  of  the  early 
morning  spread  its  rayless  illumination  over  the 
great  dome,  in  the  fading  blue  of  which  a  few 
starry  points  still  gleamed. 

"Bless  me,  what  a  morning!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Beautiful!  beautiful!"  he  repeated,  as  he  stood 
with  his  eyes  fastened  upon  the  east  and,  balanc 
ing  himself  on  one  foot,  felt  around  with  the  other 
for  that  half  of  the  trousers  not  yet  appropriated. 
"Bless  me,  what  a  day,"  he  ejaculated,  as  he 
saved  himself  by  a  quick,  upward  wrench,  from 


Parson  Whitney  Kept  JVcw  Tear's  13 

falling  from  a  trip  he  had  inadvertently  given  him 
self  in  an  abortive  effort  to  insert  his  foot  into  the 
unfilled  leg  of  his  pantaloons.  "  Ha,  ha,  that's  a 
good  un,"  he  exclaimed ;  "  trip  yourself  up  in 
getting  into  your  own  trousers,  will  you,  Deacon' 
Tubman?"  and  he  laughed  long  and  merrily  to 

O  O  J 

himself  over  his  little  joke. 

"A  happy  New  Year  to  everybody,"  cried  the 
deacon,  as  he  thrust  his  foot  into  his  stocking,  for 
the  floor  of  the  good  man's  chamber  was  carpet- 
less  and  so  cleanly  white  that  its  cleanliness  itself 
was  enough  to  freeze  one.  "Yes,  a  happy  New 
Year  to  everybody,  high,  lo\v,  rich,  poor,  south, 
north,  east  and  west,  where'er  they  are,  the  world 
over,  at  home  and  abroad  —  Amen  !  "  And  the 
deacon,  partly  at  the  sweeping  character  of  his 
benediction  and  partly  because  he  was  feeling  so 
jolly  inside  he  couldn't  help  it,  laughed  merrily,  as 
he  seized  a  boot  and  thrust  his  foot  vigorously  into 
it. 

"What's  this?  what's  this?"  cried  the  deacon, 
as  he  tugged  away  at  the  straps  until  he  was  red 
in  the  face.  "  This  boot  never  \vent  on  hard  be 
fore.  What's  the  matter  with  the  pesky  thing?" 
And  he  arose  from  his  chair,  and,  standing  on  one 


Hoiv  Deacon  Tub  mil  n  and 


foot,    turned   and    twisted    about,    tugging    all    the 
while  at  the  straps. 

"Bless  my  soul!"   exclaimed  the   deacon,  dis 
gusted  with   its   strange    behavior,    "what   is    the 

matter  with  the 
pesky  boot  ?" 

Then  he  sat 
down  upon  the 
chair  again, 
wrenched  his 
foot  out  of  the 
offending  arti 
cle  and  held  it 
u  p  b  e  twee  n 
both  hands  in 
f  r  o  n  t  o  f  h  i  m 
and  shook  it 
violently,  when, 
with  a  bump 
and  a  bound, 
out  rattled  a 
package  upon  the  floor  and  rolled  halfway  across 
the  room.  The  deacon  was  after  it  in  a  jiffy  and, 
seizing  it  in  his  little  fat  hands,  held  it  up  before, 


"  Whafs  the  matter  r,'ith  the  pesky  thin 


Parson   Whitney  Kept  JVei'j  Tears  15 

his    eyes    and    read:    "A    New   Year's    gift    from 
Miranda." 

Now  Miranda  was  the  deacon's  housekeeper,  — 
Mrs.  Tubman  having  peacefully  departed  this  life 
some  years  before,  —  and,  speaking  appreciatively 
of  the  sex,  a  more  prim,  prudent,  particular  mem 
ber  of  it  never  existed.  She  had  been  initiated, 
some  ten  years  before,  into  that  amiable  sisterhood 
commonly  known  as  spinsters,  and  was,  it  might 
be  added,  a  typical  representative.  Industrious? 
You  may  well  say  so.  Her  floors,  stoves,  dishes, 
linen, — well,  if  they  weren't  clean,  nowhere  on 
earth  might  you  find  clean  ones.  She  hated  dirt 
as  she  did  original  sin,  and  I've  no  doubt  but  that  in 
her  own  mind  considered  its  existence  in  the  world 
as  the  one  certain,  damning  and  conclusive  evi 
dence  of  the  Fall.  It  was  really  an  entertainment 
to  see  her  looking  about  the  house  for  a.  speck  of 
dirt ;  and  the  cold-blooded  manner  in  which  she 
would  seize  upon  it,  bear  it  away  in  the  dust  pan, 
and,  removing  the  lid  of  the  stove,  consign  it  to 
the  flames,  was  —  well, — what  should  I  say, — 
yes,  that's  it  —  was  most  edifying. 

Amiable!     Yes,  —  after  her  way.     And  a  very 
noiseless  sort  of  way  it  was,  too.     For,  though  she 


i6 


How  Deacon  Tnbman  and 


had  lived  with  the  deacon  for  nearly  a  dozen  years, 
he  had  never  known  her  to  so  far  forget  her  pro 
priety  as  to  indulge  in  anything  more  hearty  and 

hilarious  than  the 
most  decorous  of 
smiles,  which  smile 
was  such  a  kind  of 
illumination  to  her 
face  as  a  star  01 
inconceivably 
small  magnitude 
makes  to  the  sky 
in  trailing  across 
it. 

Of  her  personal 
appearance  1  will 
say  —  nothing. 
Sacred  let  it  be  to 
memory !  If  you 
ever  saw  her,  or 
one  like  her, 

"Miranda  belonged  to  that  sisterhood     whether    full    front 
commonly  known  as  tfinstcrs"  Qr  proflle,   whether 

sideways  or  edgewise,  the  vision,  I  am  ready  to 
swear,  remains  with  you  vividly  still.  Letitsuf- 


Parson   Whitney  Kc^>t  New  Yearns  17 

fice,  then,  when  I  observe  that  Miss  Miranda  was 
not  physically  stout,  and  that  the  deacon's  stand 
ing  joke  was  by  no  means  a  bad  one  when  he 
described  her  as  "  not  actually  burdened  with  fat." 
Yes,  she  was  a  very  cleanly,  very  thin,  very  pru 
dent,  very  particular  person,  that  never  joined  in 
any  sports  or  amusements  ;  never  joked  or  partici 
pated  in  any  happy  events  in  a  happy,  joyous 
fashion,  but  lived  unobtrusively,  and,  I  may  say, 
coldly,  in  her  own  prim,  cold,  bloodless,  little 
world. 

"Gracious  me!"  exclaimed  the  deacon,  as  he 
looked  at  the  package.  "  Gracious  me  !  what  has 
got  into  Mirandy  ?  "  And  he  looked  scrutinizingly 
at  the  little,  fine,  thin,  faintly-traced  inscription  on 
the  package,  as  if  the  writer  had  begrudged  the 
ink  that  must  be  expended  on  the  letters,  or  from  a 
subtle  and  mystic  self-sympathy  had  made  the 
chirography  faint,  delicate,  and  attenuated  as  her 
own  self. 

"  Gracious  me  !  "  reiterated  Deacon  Tubman,  as 
he  proceeded  to  untie  the  knot  in  the  pale  blue  rib 
bon  smoothly  bound  around  the  package.  "Who 
ever  knew  Mirandy  to  make  a  present  before?  "  and 
the  deacon  was  so  surprised  at  what  had  taken 


1 8  I  low  Deacon  7  ubman  and 

place  that,  for  a  moment,  he  doubted  the  evidence 
of  his  own  senses.  "  And  put  it  in  my  boot,  too, 
ha,  ha  !  "  And  the  deacon  stopped  undoing  the 
parcel,  and,  lying  back  in  the  chair,  roared  at  the 
thought  of  the  prim,  modest,  particular  Miranda 
perpetrating  such  a  joke.  And  when  the  wrap 
ping  of  the  package  was  at  last  undone,  for  every 
corner  and  crease  of  it  was  as  carefully  turned  and 
as  sharply  edged  as  if  the  smoothing  iron  had 
passed  over  them,  —  will  wonders  ever  cease  in 
this  startling  world  of  ours?  —  out  dropped  a  night 
cap  !  Yes,  a  night-cap,  delicately  and  deftly  cro 
cheted  in  warm,  woolen  stuff  of  a  rich  cardinal 
color. 

"  Ha,  ha,"  laughed  the  deacon,  as  he  held  the 
cap  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger  of  one  hand 
up  before  his  eyes,  while  he  rubbed  his  bald  crown 
with  the  other.  "Good  for  Mirnndy."  And  then, 
as  a  small  slip  of  white  paper  fluttered  to  the  floor, 
he  seized  it,  and  read  : 

•ft-    — •£ <3^Lf*,2 
&*      O&-X. 


Parson   Whitney  Kept  New  Year's  19 

"A  good  girl,  a  good  girl,"  said  the  deacon, 
"not  overburdened  with  fat,  but  a  good  girl!" 
and  with  this  rather  equivocal  compliment  to  the 
donor,  with  his  boot  in  one  hand  and  the  cap  in 
the  other,  he  rushed  impulsively  to  the  stairway 
and  shouted  : 

"A  happy  New  Year  to  you,  Mirandy.  God 
bless  you ;  God  bless  you,"  and  he  swung  the 
boot,  instead  of  the  cap,  vigorously  over  his  head, 
while  his  round,  rosy  face  beamed  down  the  stair 
way  into  the  cold  hall  below,  like  a  warm  harvest 
moon  over  the  autumnal  stubble. 

In  response  to  the  deacon's  hearty,  and,  I  may 
say,  somewhat  uproarious  greeting,  the  kitchen 
door  timidly  opened,  and  Miranda,  who  had  been 
astir  for  nearly  an  hour  and  had  the  table  already 
laid  for  breakfast,  stepped  into  view,  and,  with  a 
smile  on  her  face  that  actually  broadened  its  thin 
ness  dangerously  near  to  the  proportions  of  a 
genial  and  happy  reciprocation  of  the  jovial  greet 
ing,  dropped  a  courtesy,  and  said  : 

"  Thank  you,  Deacon  Tubman,  I  hope  you  may 
have  many  happy  returns." 

"A  thousand  to  you,  Mirandy,"  shouted  the 
deacon  in  response,  "  a  thousand  to  you  and 


26  Ho-v  Deacon  Tubman  and 

your — children!"  and  the  little  man  swung  his 
boot  vehemently  over  his  head  and  laughed  like  a 
boy  at  his  own  joke,  while  'poor,  frightened,  scan 
dalized  Miranda  turned  and  scudded,  like  a  patch 
of  thin  vapor  blown  by  an  unexpected  gust  of 
wind,  through  the  door  into  the  kitchen,  with  a 
face  colored  scarlet  from  an  actual,  unmistakable 
blush,  though  whence  the  blood  came  that  red 
dened  the  clean  cold-white  of  her  thin  face  is  a 
physiological  mystery. 

In  a  moment  the  deacon  was  fully  dressed  and 
he  scuttled  as  merrily  and  noisily  down  the  re 
sounding  stairway  as  a  gust  of  autumn  wind  run 
ning  through  a  patch  of  russet  leaves.  Through 
the  hall  and  kitchen  he  bustled  and  out  into  the 
woodshed,  where  he  ran  against  old  Towser,  the 
big  Newfoundland  watch-dog,  who  stood  in  the 
passage  expectantly  watching  his  coming. 

"  A  happy  New  Year  to  you,  Towser,  old  boy," 
he  cried,  and,  seizing  the  huge  dog  by  his  shaggy 
coat,  he  wrestled  with  him  like  a  merry-hearted 
boy.  "A  happy  New  Year  to  you,  old  fellow," 
he  repeated,  as  the  dog  broke  into  a  series  of  joy 
ful  barks;  "speak  it  right  out,  Towser.  God 
made  you  as  full  of  fun  as  he  has  the  rest  of  us, 


Parson   Whitney  Kept  New  Year's  23 

and  a  good  deal  fuller  than  many  of  your  kind, 
and  mine,  too,"  and  with  this  backhanded  hit  at 
the  vinegar-visaged  and  acidulous-hearted  of  his 
own  species,  the  deacon  shuffled  along  the  crisp, 
icy  path  toward  the  barn,  while  Towser  gam 
boled  through  the  deep  snow  and  plunged  into  the 
huge,  fleecy  drifts  in  as  merry  a  mood  as  his  merry 
master. 

"A  happy  New  Year  to  you,  old  Jack,"  he 
called  out  to  his  horse,  as  he  entered  the  barn,  and 
Jack  neighed  a  happy  return,  more  expectant,  per 
haps,  of  his  breakfast  of  oats  than  appreciative  of 
the  greeting.  "  And  a  happy  New  Year  to  you, 
you  youngster,"  he  shouted  to  the  colt,  who,  being 
at  liberty  to  roam  at  will,  had  already  appropriated 
a  section  of  the  hay-mow  to  his  own  satisfaction. 
"  Ha,  none  of  that,  you  woolly-coated  rogue,  you," 
he  cried,  as  he  jumped  aside  to  escape  a  kick  that 
the  bunch  of  equine  mischief  anticly  snapped  at 
him.  "  None  of  that,  you  little  unconverted  sin 
ner,  you.  I  verily  believe  the  parson  is  right,  and 
that 

'  In  Adam's  fall 
We  sinned  all  — 

men  and  beasts,  colts  and  children,  all  in  one  lot." 


24  I  fun,'  Deacon   Tubnian  and 

And  so,  talking  to  himself  and  his  cattle,  the 
jolly  little  man,  whose  good-heartedness  repre 
sented  more  genuine  orthodoxy  than  the  whole 
Westminster  catechism,  bustled  merrily  about  the 
barn  and  did  his  chores,  while  the  cockerels  crowed 
noisily  from  their  perches  overhead,  the  fat  white 
pijrs  tminted  in  lazy  contentment  from  their  warm 

I      c")        O  •> 

beds  of  straw,  and  the  oxen,  with  their  large, 
luminous  eyes,  gazed  benevolently  at  him  as  he 
crammed  their  mangers  generously  full  with  the 
fragrant  hay  that  smelled  sweetly  of  the  flowers 
and  odorous  meadow  lands,  where  in  the  warm 
summer  sunshine  it  had  ripened  for  the  welcome 
scythe. 

How  happy  is  life,  in  whatever  part  of  this  great 
fragrant  world  of  ours  it  is  lived,  when  men  live  it 

o 

happily ;  and  how  gloomy  seems  its  sunshine, 
even,  when  seen  through  the  shadows  and  dark 
ness  of  our  surly  moods. 

What  happy-hearted  fairy  was  it  that  possessed 
the  deacon's  heart  and  home,  on  this  bright  New 

c? 

Year's  morn,  I  wonder?  Surely,  some  angel  of 
fun  and  frolic  had  flown  into  the  deacon's  house 
with  the  opening  of  the  year  and  was  filling  it,  and 
the  hearts  within  it,  too,  with  mirthful  moods.  For 


Parson    Whitney  Kept  jVczu  I'ear's  25 

the  deacon  laughed  and  joked  as  he  buttered  his 
cakes  and  fired  off  his  funny  sayings  at  Miranda, 
as  he  had  never  joked  and  laughed  before,  until 
Miranda  herself  smiled  and  giggled ;  yes,  actually 
giggled,  behind  the  coffee-urn,  at  his  merry  squibs, 
as  if  the  little  imp  above  mentioned  was  mischiev 
ously  tickling  her  —  yes,  I  will  sav  it,  —  her  spin 
ster  ribs. 

"  Mirandy,  I'm  going  up  to  see  the  parson,"  ex 
claimed  the  deacon,  when  the  morning  devotions 
were  over,  kt  and  see  if  I  can  thaw  him  out  a  little. 
I've  heard  there  used  to  be  a  lot  of  fun  in  him  in 
his  younger  days,  but  he's  sort  of  frozen  all  up 
latterly,  and  I  can  see  that  the  young  folks  are 
afraid  of  him  and  the  church,  too,  but  that  won't 
do  —  no,  that  won't  do,"  repeated  the  good  man 
emphatically,  "  for  the  minister  ought  to  be  loved 
by  young  and  old,  rich  and  poor,  and  everybody  ; 
and  a  church  without  young  folks  in  it  is  like  a 
family  with  no  children  in  it.  Yes,  I'll  go  up  and 
wish  him  a  happy  New  Year,  anyway.  Perhaps 
I  can  get  him  out  for  a  ride  to  make  some  calls  on 
the  people  and  see  the  young  folks  at  their  fun. 
It'll  do  him  good  and  them  good  and  me  good,  and 
do  everybody  good."  Saying  which  the  deacon 


26  Hoiv  Deacon  Tubman  and 

got  inside  his  warm  fur  coat  and  started  towards 
the  barn  to  harness  Jack  into  the  worn,  old-fash 
ioned  sleigh  ;  which  sleigh  was  built  high  in  the 
back  and  had  a  curved  dasher  of  monstrous  pro 
portions,  ornamented  with  a  prancing  horse  in  an 
impossible  attitude,  done  in  bright  vermilion  on  a 
blue-black  irround. 


Parson   Whitney  Kept  New  Tear's  27 


II 

"  HAPPY  New  Year  to  you,  Parson  Whitney  ; 
happy  Xe\v  Year  to  you,"  cried  the  deacon,  from 
his  sleigh  to  the  parson,  who  stood  curled  up  and 
shivering  in  the  doorway  of  the  parsonage,  "and 
may  you  live  to  enjoy  a  hundred." 

''  Come  in  ;  come  in,"  cried  Parson  Whitney,  in 
response,  "  I'm  glad  you've  come  ;  I'm  glad  you've 
come.  I've  been  wanting  to  see  you  all  the  morn 
ing,"  and  in  the  cordiality  of  his  greeting,  he  lit 
erally  pulled  the  little  man  through  the  doorway 
into  the  hall  and  hurried  him  up  the  stairway  to 
his  studv  in  the  chamber  overhead. 

"Thinking  of  me!  Well,  now,  I  never,"  ex 
claimed  the  deacon,  as,  assisted  by  the  parson,  he 
twisted  and  wriirirled  himself  out  of  the  coat  that 

C>  O 

he  a  little  too  snugly  filled  for  an  easy  exit. 
"  Thinking  of  me,  and  among  all  these  books, 
too ;  bibles,  catechisms,  tracts,  theologies,  ser 
mons  ;  well,  well,  that's  funny  !  What  made  you 
think  of  me  ?  " 


28 


How  Deacon   Tub  man  and 


"  Deacon  Tubman,"  responded  the  parson,  as 
he  seated  himself  in  his  arm-chair.  *•  I  want  to  talk 
with  you  about  the  church." 


"7  -vattt  to  talk  -vith  you  about  the  church." 

"The   church!"   ejaculated   the   deacon,  in   re 
sponse,  "  nothing  going  wrong,  I  hope?" 


Parson  Whitney  Kept  Nciv  fear's  29 

"Yes,  things  are  going  wrong,  deacon,"  re 
sponded  the  parson;  "the  congregation  is  grow 
ing  smaller  and  smaller,  and  yet  I  preach  good, 
strong,  biblical,  soul-satisfying  sermons,  I  think." 

"  Good  ones  !  good  ones  !  "  answered  the  dea 
con,  promptly  ;  "  never  better  ;  never  better  in  the 
world." 

"And  yet  the  people  are  deserting  the  sanct 
uary,"  rejoined  the  parson,  solemnly,  "  and  the 
young  people  won't  come  to  the  sociables  and  the 
little  children  seem  actually  afraid  of  me.  What 
shall  I  do,  deacon?"  and  the  good  man  put  the 
question  with  pathetic  emphasis. 

"You  have  hit  the  nail  on  the  head,  square  's  a 
hatchet,  parson,"  responded  the  deacon.  "  The 
congregation  is  thinning  ;  the  young  people  don't 
come  to  the  meetings,  and  the  little  children  are 
afraid  of  you." 

"  What's  the  matter,  deacon?  "  cried  the  parson, 
in  return.  "What  is  it?"  he  repeated,  earnestly; 
"  speak  it  right  out ;  don't  try  to  spare  my  feelings. 
I  will  listen  to  —  I  will  do  anything  to  win  back 
my  people's  love,"  and  the  strong,  old-fashioned, 
Calvinistic  preacher  said  it  in  a  voice  that  actually 
trembled. 


30  IIoiv  Deacon  Tub/nan  and 

"  You  can  do  it ;  you  can  do  it  in  a  week  !  "  ex 
claimed  the  deacon,  encouragingly.  "  Don't  worry 
about  it,  parson,  it'll  be  all  right;  it'll  be  all  right. 
Your  books  are  the  trouble." 

"Eh?  eh?  books?"  ejaculated  the  parson. 
"  What  have  they  to  do  with  it?  " 

"Everything,"  replied  the  deacon,  stoutly  ;  "you 
pore  over  them  day  in  and  day  out ;  they  keep  you 
in  this  room  here,  when  you  should  be  out  among 
the  people.  Not  making  pastoral  visits,  I  don't 
mean  that,  but  going  around  among  them,  chatting 
and  joking  and  having  a  good  time.  They  would 
like  it,  and  you  would  like  it,  and  as  for  the  young 
folks,  —  how  old  are  you,  parson?" 

"  Sixty,  next  month,"  answered  the  parson,  sol- 
emnlv,  "  sixty  next  month." 

"Thirty!  thirty!  that's  all  you  are,  parson,  or 
all  you  ought  to  be,"  cried  the  deacon.  "  Thirty, 
twenty,  sixteen.  Let  the  figures  slide  down  and 
up,  according  to  circumstances,  but  never  let  them 
go  higher  than  thirty,  when  you  are  dealing  with 
young  folks.  I'm  sixty  myself,  counting  years, 
but  I'm  only  sixteen  ;  sixteen  this  morning,  that's 
all,  parson,"  and  he  rubbed  his  little,  round,  plump 
hands  together,  looked  at  the  parson  and  winked. 


Parson   Whitney  Kept  JVcw  Year's  31 

"  Bless  my  soul,  Deacon  Tubman,  I  don't  know 
but  that  you  are  right ! "  answered  the  parson. 
"Sixty?  I  don't  know  as  I  am  sixty."  And  he 
began  to  rub  his  own  hands,  and  came  within  an 
ace  of  executing  a  wink  at  the  deacon  himself. 

"  Not  a  day  over  twenty,  if  I  am  any  judge  of 
age,"  responded  the  deacon,  deliberately,  as  he 
looked  the  white-headed  old  minister  over  with  a 
most  comic  imitation  of  seriousness.  "  Not  a  day 
over  twenty,  on  my  honor,"  and  the  deacon  leaned 
forward  toward  the  parson  and  gave  him  a  punch 
with  his  thumb,  as  one  boy  might  deliver  a  punch 
at  another,  and  then  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  and 
laughed  so  heartily  that  the  parson  caught  the  in 
fectious  mirth  and  roared  away  as  heartily  as  the 
deacon. 

Yes,  it  was  impossible  to  sit  hobnobbing  with  the 
jolly  little  deacon  on  that  bright  New  Year's  morn 
ing  and  not  be  affected  by  the  happiness  of  his 
mood,  for  he  was  actually  bubbling  over  with  fun 
and  as  full  of  frolic  as  if  the  finger  on  the  dial  had, 
in  truth,  gone  back  forty  years  and  he  was  only 
sixteen.  "Only  sixteen,  parson,  on  my  honor." 

"But  what  can  I  do,"  queried  the  good  man, 
sobering  down.  "  I  make  my  pastoral  visits"  — 


32  Hoiu  Deacon  Tubman  and 

"Pastoral  visits  !"  responded  Deacon  Tubman, 
"  oh,  yes,  and  they  are  all  well  enough  for  the 
old  folks,  but  they  ar'n't  the  kind  of  biscuit  the 
young  folks  like  —  too  heavy  in  the  centre,  and 
over-hard  in  the  crust,  for  young  teeth,  eh,  par 
son?" 

"  But  what  shall  I  do?  what  shall  I  do?"  reiter 
ated  the  parson,  somewhat  despondently. 

"  Oh,  put  on  your  hat  and  gloves  and  warmest 
coat  and  come  along  with  me.  We  will  see  what 

c> 

the  young  folks  are  doing  and  will  make  a  day  of 
it.  Come,  come  ;  let  the  old  books  and  catechisms 
and  sermons  and  tracts  have  a  respite  for  once, 
and  we'll  spend  the  day  out  of  doors  with  the  boys 
and  girls  and  the  people." 

"I'll  do  it!"  exclaimed  the  parson.  "Deacon 
Tubman,  you  are  right.  I  keep  to  my  study  too 
closely.  I  don't  see  enough  of  the  world  and 
what's  going  on  in  it.  I  was  reading  the  Testa 
ment  this  morning  and  I  was  impressed  with  the 
Master's  manner  of  living  and  teaching.  It  is  not 
certain  that  he  ever  preached  more  than  twice  in  a 
church  during  all  his  ministry  on  the  earth.  And 
the  children  !  how  much  he  loved  the  children  and 
how  the  little  ones  loved  him  !  And  why  shouldn't 


Parson   Whitney  Kept  JVcw  Tear's  33 


they  love  me,  too?  Why  shouldn't  they?  I'll 
make  them  do  it.  The  lambs  of  my  flock  shall 
love  me."  And  with  these  brave  words,  Parson 
Whitney  bundled  himself  up  in  his  warmest  gar 
ment  and  followed  the  deacon  down  stairs. 

"Tell    the    folks    that   you    won't   be    back    till 
night,"  called  the  deacon  from  the  sleigh,  "  for  this 


"Tell  the  folks  that  yon  won't  be  back   till  night.''1 

is  New  Year's  and  we're  going  to  make  a  day  of 
it."  And  he  laughed  away  as  heartily  as  might  be 
—  so  heartily,  indeed,  that  the  parson  joined  in  the 
laughter  himself  as  lie  came  shuffling  down  the  icy 
path  toward  him. 


34  Ifo~u  Deacon  Tubman  and 

"  Bless  me,  how  much  younger  I   feel   already," 

•/  O  *• 

said  the  good  man,  as  lie  stood  up  in  the  sleigh, 
and  with  a  long,  strong  breath,  breathed  the  cool, 
pure  air  into  his  lungs.  "  Bless  me,  how  much 
younger  I  feel  already,"  he  repeated,  as  he  settled 
down  into  the  roomy  seat  of  the  old  sleigh.  "  Only 
sixteen  to-day,  eh,  deacon,"  and  he  nudged  him 
with  his  elbow. 

"That's  all;  that's  all,  parson,"  answered  the 
deacon,  gayly,  as  he  nudged  him  vigorously  back, 
"that's  all  we  are,  either  of  us,"  and,  laughing  as 
merrily  as  boys,  the  two  glided  away  in  the  sleigh. 

Well,  perhaps  they  didn't  have  fun  that  day — 
those  two  old  boys  that  had  started  out  with  the 
feeling  that  they  were  "  only  sixteen,"  and  bound 
to  make  "a  day  of  it."  And  they  did  make  a  day 
of  it,  in  fact,  and  such  a  day  as  neither  had  had 
for  forty  years.  For,  first,  they  went  to  Bartlett's 
hill,  where  the  boys  and  girls  were  coasting,  and 
coasted  with  them  for  a  full  hour  ;  and  then  it  was 
discovered  by  the  younger  portion  of  his  flock  that 
the  parson  was  not  an  old,  stiff,  solemn,  surly  poke, 
as  they  had  thought,  but  a  pleasant,  good-natured, 
kindly  soul,  who  could  take  and  give  a  joke  and 
steer  a  sled  as  well  as  the  smartest  boy  in  the 


-MUS  found  that  the  parson  could  steer  a  sled." 


Parson    Whitney  Kept  JVciu  Year's 


37 


crowd ;  and  when  it  came  to  snow-balling,  he 
could  send  a  ball  further  than  Bill  Sykes  himself, 
who  could  out-throw  any  boy  in  town,  and  roll  up 
a  bigger  block  to  the  new  snow  fort  they  were 
building  than  any  three  boys  among  them.  And 
how  the  parson  enjoyed  being  a  boy  again  !  How 
exhilarating  the 
slide  do w n  the 
steep  hill ;  how  in- 
vigorating  the 
pure,  cool  air  ;  how 
pleasant  the  noise 
of  the  chatting  and 
joking  going  on 
around  him  ;  how 
bright  and  sweet 

O 

the  boys  and  girls 
looked,  with  their 
rosy  cheeks  and 


sparkling    eyes; 


•Little  Alice   Dorchester   begged  him 


to  stay." 

how  the  old  parson's  heart  thrilled  as  they  crowded 
around  him  when  he  would  go,  and  urged  him  to 
stay  ;  and  how  little  Alice  Dorchester  begged  him, 
with  her  little  arms  around  his  neck,  to  "  jes  stay 
and  gib  me  one  more  slide." 


3a  Hoiv  Deacon  Tubman  and 

"You  never  made  such  a  pastoral  call  as  that, 
parson,"  said  the  deacon,  as  they  drove  away  amid 
the  cheers  of  the  boys  and  the  good-byes  of  the 
girls,  while  the  former  fired  off  a  volley  of  snow 
balls  in  his  honor  and  the  latter  waved  their  muffs 
and  handkerchiefs  after  them. 

"God  bless  them!  God  bless  them!"  said  the 
parson.  "They  have  lifted  a  great  load  from  my 
heart  and  taught  me  the  sweetness  of  life,  of  youth 
and  the  wisdom  of  Him  who  took  the  little  ones  in 
His  arms  and  blessed  them.  Ah,  deacon,"  he 
added,  "  I've  been  a  great  fool,  but  I'll  be  so, 
thank  God,  no  more." 


Parson  Whitney  Kept  New  Yearns          39 


Now,  old  Jack  was  a  horse  of  a  great  deal  of 
character,  and  had  a  great  history,  but  of  this  none 
in  that  section,  save  the  little  deacon,  knew  a  word. 
Dick  Tubman,  the  deacon's  youngest,  wildest,  and, 
I  might  add,  favorite  son,  had  purchased  him  of 
an  impecunious  jockey  at  the  close  of  a,  to  him, 
disastrous  campaign,  that  cleaned  him  completely 
out  and  left  him  in  a  strange  city,  a  thousand  miles 
from  home,  with  nothing  but  the  horse,  harness 
and  sulky,  and  a  list  of  unpaid  bills  that  must  be 
met  before  he  could  leave  the  scene  of  his  disas 
trous  fortunes.  Under  such  circumstances  it  was 
that  Dick  Tubman  ran  across  the  horse  and, 
partly  out  of  pity  for  its  owner  and  partly  out  of 
admiration  of  the  horse,  whose  failure  to  win  at  the 
races  was  due  more  to  his  lack  of  condition  and 
the  bad  management  of  his  jockey  than  lack  of 
speed,  bought  him  off-hand  and,  having  no  use 
for  him  himself,  shipped  him  as  a  present  to  the 
deacon,  with  whom  he  had  now  been  for  four 


4° 


-.v  Deacon  Tnliuan  and 


years,  with  no  harder  work  than  plowing  out  the 
good  old  man's  corn  in  the  summer,  and  jog<nn<>- 
along  the  country  roads  on  the  deacon's  errands. 
Having  said  this  much  of  the  horse,  perhaps  I 
should  more  particularly  describe  him. 

He  was,  in  sooth,  an  animal  of  most  unique   and 
extraordinary  appearance.      For,  in  the  lirst  place, 

he  was  quite  seven 
teen  hands  in 
height  and  long  in 
proportion,  lie 
was  also  the  re 
verse  ot  shapely  in 
the  fashion  of  his 
build,  lor  his  head 
was  long  and  bony 
and  his  hip  bones 
sharp  and  pro- 

" Ola    Jack   ivas  a  horse    of    a   great 

deal  of  character."  tubenillt  :     his     tail 

was  what  is  known  among  horsemen  as  a  "rat 
tail,"  being  but  scantily  covered  with  hair,  and  his 
neck\vas  even  more  scantily  supplied  with  a  mane  ; 
while  in  color  he  could  easily  have  taken  any 
premium  put  up  for  homeliness,  being  an  ashen 
roan,  mottled  with  black  and  patches  of 


Parson   Whitney  Kept  JM'czu  Year's  41 

divers  hue.  But  his  legs  were  flat  and  corded 
like  a  racer's,  his  neck  long  and  thin  as  a  thor 
oughbred's,  his  nostrils  large,  his  ears  sharply 
pointed  and  lively,  while  the  white  rings  around 
his  eyes  hinted  at  a  cross,  somewhere  in  his  pedi 
gree,  with  Arabian  blood.  A  huge,  bony, 
homely -looking  horse  he  was  as  he  drew  the  dea 
con  and  Miranda  into  the  village  on  market  days 
and  Sundays,  with  a  loose,  shambling  gait,  making 
altogether  an  appearance  so  homely  and  peculiar 
that  the  smart  village  chaps,  riding  along  in  their 
jaunty  turn-outs,  used  to  chaff  the  good  deacon  on 
the  character  of  the  steed,  and  satirically  chal 
lenge  him  to  a  brush.  The  deacon  always  took 
the  badinage  in  good  part,  although  he  inwardly 
said,  more  than  once,  "•  If  I  ever  get  a  good 
chance,  when  there  ain't  too  many  around,  I'll 
go  up  to  the  turn  of  the  road  beyond  the  church 
and  let  Jack  out  on  them  ;  "  for  Dick  had  given 
him  a  hint  of  the  horse's  history,  and  told  him 
"  he  could  knock  the  spots  out  of  thirty,  "  and 
wickedly  urged  the  deacon  to  take  the  shine  out  of 
them  airy  chaps  some  of  these  days. 

Such   \vas  the   horse,  then,    that  the  deacon  had 
ahead  of  him  and   the   old-fashioned   sleigh  wrhen, 


42  Ho-v  Deacon  Tubman  and 

with  the  parson  alongside,  he  struck  into  the 
principal  street  of  the  village. 

New  Year's  day  is  a  lively  day  in  many  country 
villages,  and  on  this  bright  one  especially,  as  the 
sleighing  was  perfect,  everybody  was  out.  In 
deed',  it  had  got  noised  abroad  that  certain  trotters 
of  local  fame  were  to  be  on  the  street  that  afternoon 
and,  as  the  boys  worded  it,  "There  would  be  heaps 
of  fun  sroinof  on."  So  it  happened  that  everybody 

O  C5  A     *  J  J 

in  town,  and  many  who  lived  out  of  it,  were  on 
that  particular  street,  and  just  at  the  hour,  too, 
when  the  deacon  came  to  the  foot  of  it,  so  that  the 
walk  on  either  side  was  lined  darkly  with  lookers- 
on  and  the  smooth  snow  path  between  the  two 
lines  looked  like  a  veritable  home-stretch  on  a 
race  day. 

Now,  when  the  deacon  had  reached  the  corner 
of  the  main  street  and  turned  into  it,  it  was  at  that 
point  where  the  course  terminated  and  the 
"brushes"  were  ended,  and  at  the  precise  moment 
when  the  dozen  or  twenty  horses  that  had  come 
flying  down  were  being  pulled  up  preparatory  to 
returning  at  a  slow  gait  to  the  customary  starting 
point  at  the  head  of  the  street  a  half  mile  away. 
So  the  old-fashioned  sleigh  was  quickly  surrounded 


Parson  Whitney  Kept  New  Tcar^s  45 

by  the  light,  fancy  cutters  of  the  rival  racers  and 
Old  Jack  was  shambling  along  in  the  midst  of  the 
high-spirited  and  smoking  nags  that  had  just  come 
down  the  stretch. 

"  Hillow,  deacon,"  shouted  one  of  the  boys,  who 
was  driving  a  trim-looking  bay,  and  who  had 
crossed  the  line  at  the  ending  of  the  course  second 
only  to  the  pacer  that  could  "speed  like  lightning," 
as  the  boys  said;  "Hillow,  deacon,  ain't  you  go 
ing  to  shake  out  old  shamble-heels  and  show  us 
fellows  what  speed  is,  to-day?"  And  the  merry- 
hearted  chap,  son  of  the  principal  lawyer  of  the 
place,  laughed  heartily  at  his  challenge,  while  the 
other  drivers  looked  at  the  great  angular  steed  that, 
without  check,  was  walking  carelessly  along,  with 
his  head  held  down,  ahead  of  the  old  sleigh  and  its 
churchly  occupants. 

"I  don't  know  but  what  I  will,"  answered 
the  deacon,  good-naturedly;  "I  don't  know  but 
what  I  will,  if  the  parson  don't  object,  and  you 
won't  start  off  too  quick  to  begin  with  ;  for  this 
is  New  Year's  and  a  little  extra  fun  won't  hurt 
any  of  us,  I  reckon." 

"  Do  it !  do  it !  we'll  hold  up  for  you,"  answer 
ed  a  dozen  merry  voices.  "  Do  it,  deacon,  it'll 


46  Hoiv  Deacon  Tub  man  and 

do  old  shamble-heels  good  to  go  a  ten-mile-an- 
hour  gait  for  once  in  his  life,  and  the  parson 
needn't  fear  of  being  scandalized  by  any  speed 
you'll  get  out  of  him,  either,"  and  the  merry- 
hearted  chaps  haw-hawed  as  men  and  boys  will 
when  everyone  is  jolly  and  fun  flows  fast. 
And  so,  with  any  amount  of  good-natured 

•J  O 

chaffing  Irom  the  drivers  of  the  "fast  uns,'' 
and  from  many  that  lined  the  roads,  too,  —  for 
the  day  gave  greater  liberty  than  usual  to  banter 
ing  speech, — the  speedy  ones  paced  slowly  up 
to  the  head  of  the  street  with  Old  Jack  shambling 
demurely  in  the  midst  of  them. 

But  the  horse  was  a  knowing  old  fellow  and 
had  "  scored"  at  too  many  races  not  to  know  that 
the  "  return  "  was  to  be  leisurely  taken;  and,  in 
deed,  he  was  a  horse  of  independence  and  of  too 
even,  perhaps  of  too  sluggish  a  temperament 
to  waste  himself  in  needless  action  ;  but  he  had 
the  right  stuff  in  him  and  hadn't  forgotten  his 
early  training,  either,  for  when  he  came  to  the 
"turn,"'  his  head  and  tail  came  up,  his  eyes 
brightened,  and,  with  a  playful  movement  of  his 
huge  body,  without  the  least  hint  from  the  deacon, 
he  swung  himself  and  the  cumbrous  old  sleigh 


Parson   \V7iifncy  Kept  Nciu  Tear's  47 

into     line     and    began    to    straighten    himself  for 
the    coming   brush. 

Now,  Jack  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  horse  of  huge 
proportions,  and  needed  "  steadying"  at  the  start, 
but  the  good  deacon  had  no  experience  with  the 
"  ribbons,"  and  was,  therefore,  utterly  unskilled 
in  the  matter  of  driving.  And  so  it  came  about 
that  Old  Jack  was  so  confused  at  the  start  that  he 
made  a  most  awkward  and  wretched  appearance 
in  his  effort  to  get  off,  being  all  "  mixed  up,"  as 
the  saying  is,  so  much  so  that  the  crowd  roared  at 
his  ungainly  efforts  and  his  flying  rivals  were 
twenty  rods  away  before  he  had  even  got  started. 
But  at  last  he  got  his  huge  body  in  a  straight  line 
and,  leaving  his  miserable  shuffle,  squared  away 
to  his  work,  and  with  head  and  tail  up  went  off  at 
so  slashing  a  gait  that  it  fairly  took  the  deacon's 
breath  away  and  caused  the  crowd  that  had  been 
hooting  him  to  roar  their  applause,  while  the 
parson  irrabbed  the  ed<re  of  the  old  slei<rh  with 

1  O  O  O 

one  hand  and  the  rim   of  his   tall    black   hat   with 
the  other. 

What  a  pity,  Mr.  Longface,  that  God  made 
horses  as  they  are,  and  gave  them  such  grandeur 
of  appearance  and  action,  and  put  such  an  eagle- 


48  llo'v  Deacon  Tulnnan  (tnd 

like  spirit  between  their  ribs,  so  that,  quitting  the2 
plodding  motions  of  the  ox,  they  can  fly  like  that 
noble  bird  and  come  sweeping  down  the  course  as 
on  wings  of  the  wind. 

It  was  not  my  fault,  nor  the  deacon's,  nor  the 
parson's,  either,  please  remember,  then,  that 
awkward,  shuffling,  homely-looking  Old  Jack  was 
thus  suddenly  transformed  by  the  royalty  of  blood, 
of  pride  and  of  speed  given  him  by  his  Creator 
from  what  he  ordinarily  was  into  a  magnificent 
spectacle  of  energetic  velocity. 

With  muzzle  lifted  well  up,  tail  erect,  the  few 
hairs  in  it  .streaming  straight  behind,  one  ear 
pricked  forward  and  the  other  tuined  sharply  back. 
the  great  horse  s\vept  grandly  along  at  a  pace  that 
was  rapidly  bringing  him  even  with  the  rear  line 
of  the  flying  group.  And  yet  so  little  was  the 
pace  to  him  that  he  fairly  gamboled  in  playfulness 
as  he  went  slashing  along,  until  the  deacon  verily 
began  to  fear  that  the  honest  old  chap  would 
break  through  all  the  bounds  of  propriety  and 
send  his  heels  anticly  through  his  treasured  dash 
board.  Indeed,  the  spectacle  that  the  huge  horse 
presented  was  so  magnificent  and  his  action  so 
free,  spirited  and  playful,  as  he  came  sweeping 


Parson   Whitney  Kept  New  Tear's  49 

onward  that  the  cheers,  such  as  "  Good  heavens  ! 
see  the  deacon's  old  horse!"  "Look  at  him! 
look  at  him!"  "What  a  stride!"  ran  ahead 
of  him ;  and  old  Bill  Sykes,  a  trainer  in  his 
day,  but  now  a  hanger-on  at  the  village  tavern, 
or  that  section  of  it  known  as  the  bar,  wiped  his 
watery  eyes  with  his  tremulous  fist,  as  he  saw 
Jack  come  swinging  down,  and,  as  he  swept 
past,  with  his  open  gait,  powerful  stroke  and 
stifles  playing  well  out,  brought  his  hand  down 
with  a  mighty  slap  against  his  thigh,  and  said  : 
"  I'll  be  blowed  if  he  isn't  a  regular  old  timer  !  " 

It  was  fortunate  for  the  deacon  and  the  parson 
that  the  noise  and  cheering  of  the  crowd  drew  the 
attention  of  the  drivers  ahead,  or  there  would 
surely  have  been  more  than  one  collision,  for  the 
old  sleigh  was  of  such  size  and  strength,  the  good 
deacon  so  unskilled  at  the  reins,  and  Jack,  who  was 
adding  to  his  momentum  with  every  stride,  going 
at  so  determined  a  pace,  that  had  he  struck  the  rear 
line  with  no  gap  for  him  to  go  through,  something 
serious  would  surely  have  happened.  But  as  it 
was,  the  drivers  saw  the  huge  horse,  with  the 
cumbrous  old  sleigh  behind  him,  bearing  down 
on  them  at  such  a  gait  as  made  their  own  speed, 


5o  IIoiu  Deacon  Tulnnan  and 

sharp  as  it  was,  seem  slow,  and  "pulled  out"  in 
time  to  save  themselves  ;  and  so,  without  any  mis 
hap,  the  big  horse  and  heavy  sleigh  swept  through 
the  rear  row  of  racers  like  an  autumn  gust  through 
a  cluster  of  leaves. 

But  by  this  time  the  deacon  had  become  some 
what  alarmed,   for  Old  Jack  was  going  nigh  to  a 


"Jack  -MUS  going  nigh  to  a  thirty  clip  I" 
thirty  clip  —  a  frightful  pace  for  an  inexperienced 
driver  to  ride  —  and  began  to  put  a  good  strong 
pressure  upon  the  bit,  not  doubting  that  Old  Jack, 
ordinarily  the  easiest  horse  in  the  world  to  manage, 
would  take  the  hint  and  immediately  slow  up. 
But  though  the  huge  horse  took  the  hint,  it  was  in 


Parson    Whitney  Kept  New  Tear's  51 

exactly  the  opposite  manner  that  the  deacon  intend 
ed  he  should,  for  he  interpreted  the  little  man's 
steady  pull  as  an  intimation  that  his  driver  was 
getting  over  his  flurry  and  beginning  to  treat  him  as 
a  horse  ought  to  be  treated  in  a  race,  and  that  he 
could  now,  having  got  settled  to  his  work,  go  ahead. 
And  go  ahead  he  did.  The  more  the  deacon  pulled 
the  more  the  great  animal  felt  himself  steadied  and 
assisted.  And  so,  the  harder  the  good  man  tugged 
at  the  reins,  the  more  powerfully  the  machinery  of 
the  big  animal  ahead  of  him  worked,  until  the  dea 
con  got  alarmed  and  began  to  call  upon  the  horse  to 
stop,  crying,  "Whoa,  Jack,  whoa,  old  boy,  I  say  ! 
whoa,  will  you,  now?  that's  a  good  fellow!"  and 
many  other  coaxing  calls,  while  he  pulled  away 
steadily  at  the  reins.  But  the  horse  misunderstood 
the  deacon's  calls  as  he  had  his  pressure  upon  the 
reins,  for  the  crowds  on  either  side  were  yelling  and 
hooting  and  swinging  their  caps  so  that  the  deacon's 
voice  came  indistinctly  to  his  ears  at  best  and  he 
interpreted  his  calls  for  him  to  stop  as  only  so  many 
encouragements  and  signals  for  him  to  go  ahead. 
And  so,  with  the  memory  of  a  hundred  races  stirring 
his  blood,  the  crowds  cheering  him  to  the  echo,  the 
steadying  pull,  the  encouraging  cries  of  his  driver 


52  How  Deacon  Tubman  and 

in  his  ears  and  his  only  rival,  the  pacer,  whirling 
along  only  a  few  rods  ahead  of  him,  the  monstrous 
animal,  with  a  desperate  plunge  that  half  lifted  the 
old  sleigh  from  the  snow,  let  out  another  link,  and, 
with  such  a  burst  of  speed  as  was  never  seen  in  the 
village  before,  tore  along  after  the  pacer  at  such  a 
terrific  pace  that,  within  the  distance  of  a  dozen 
lengths,  he  lay  lapped  upon  him  and  the  two  were 
going  it  nose  and  nose. 

What  is  that  feeling  in  human  hearts  which  makes 
us  sympathetic  with  man  or  animal,  who  has  unex 
pectedly  developed  courage  and  capacity  when 
engaged  in  a  struggle  in  which  the  odds  are  against 
him?  And  why  do  we  enter  so  spiritedly  into  the 
contest  and  lose  ourselves  in  the  excitement  of  the 
moment?  Is  it  pride?  Is  it  the  comradeship  of  cour 
age?  Or  is  it  the  rising  of  the  indomitable  in  us 
that  loves  nothing  so  much  as  victory  and  hates 
nothing  so  much  as  defeat?  Be  that  as  it  may,  no 
sooner  was  Old  Jack  fairly  lapped  on  the  pacer, 
whose  driver  was  urging  him  along  with  rein  and 
voice  alike,  and  the  contest  seemed  doubtful,  than 
the  spirit  of  old  Adam  himself  entered  into  the  dea 
con  and  the  parson  both,  so  that,  carried  away  by 
the  excitement  of  the  race,  they  fairly  forgot  them- 


Parson  Whllncy  Jfcpt  JVc~u  Tear's  55 

selves  and  entered  as  wildly  into  the  contest  as  t\vo 
ungodly  jockeys. 

"Deacon  Tubman,"  said  the  parson,  as  he 
clutched  more  stoutly  the  rim  of  his  tall  hat,  against 
which,  as  the  horse  tore  along,  the  snow  chips  were 
pelting  in  showers,  "Deacon  Tubman,  do  you  think 
the  pacer  will  beat  us?" 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it !  not  if  I  can  help  it ! "  yelled 
the  deacon,  in  reply,  as,  with  something  like  a  reins- 
man's  skill,  he  lifted  Jack  to  another  spurt.  "  Go  it, 
old  boy!"  he  shouted,  encouragingly,  "  go  along 
with  you,  I  say!"  And  the  parson,  also,  carried 
away  by  the  whirl  of  the  moment,  cried,  "  Go  along, 
old  boy  !  Go  along  with  you,  I  say  !" 

This  was  the  very  thing,  and  the  only  thing,  that 
the  huge  horse,  whose  blood  was  now  fairly  aflame, 
wanted  to  rally  him  for  the  final  effort;  and,  in 
response  to  the  encouraging  cries  of  the  two  behind 
him,  he  gathered  himself  together  for  another  burst 
of  speed  and  put  forth  his  collected  strength  with 
such  tremendous  energy  and  suddenness  of  move- 

o«> 

ment  that  the  little  deacon,  who  had  risen  and  was 
standing  erect  in  the  sleigh,  fell  back  into  the  arms 
of  the  parson,  while  the  great  horse  rushed  over  the 
line  amid  such  cheers  and  roars  of  laughter  as  were 


56  IIoiv  Deacon  Tub  man  and 

never  heard  in  that  village  before.  Nor  was  the 
horse  any  more  the  object  of  public  interest  and 
remark,  —  I  may  say  favoring  remark,  —  than  the 
parson,  who  suddenly  found  himself  the  centre  of  a 
crowd  of  his  own  parishioners,  many  of  whom 
would  scarcely  have  been  expected  to  participate 
in  such  a  scene,  but  who,  thawed  out  of  their 
iciness  by  the  genial  temper  of  the  day  and  vastly 
excited  over  Jack's  contest,  thronged  upon  the  good 
man,  laughing  as  heartily  as  any  jolly  sinner  in  the 
crowd. 

So  everybody  shook  hands  with  the  parson  and 
wished  him  a  happy  New  Year,  and  the  parson 
shook  hands  with  everybody  and  wished  them  all 
many  happy  returns  ;  and  everybody  praised  Old 
Jack  and  rallied  the  deacon  on  his  driving,  and 
then  everybody  went  home  good-natured  and 
happy,  laughing  and  talking  about  the  wonderful 
race  and  the  change  that  had  come  over  Parson 

O 

Whitney. 

And  as  for  Parson  Whitney  himself,  the  day 
and  its  fun  had  taken  twrenty  years  from  his 
age.  And  nothing  would  answer  but  the  dea 
con  must  go  with  him  and  help  eat  the  New 
Year's  pudding  at  the  parsonage.  And  he  did. 


Parson   Whitney  Kept  JVeiv  Tear's  57 

4 
At    the    table    they    laughed     and     talked    over 

the  funny  incidents  of  the  day  and  joked  each 
other  as  merrily  as  two  boys.  Then  Parson 
Whitney  told  some  reminiscences  of  his  college 
days  and  the  scrapes  he  got  into,  and  about  a 
riot  between  town  and  gown  when  he  carried 
the  "  Bully's  Club "  ;  and  the  deacon  returned 
by  narrating  his  experiences  with  a  certain  Deacon 
Jones's  watermelon  patch,  when  he  was  a  boy. 

And  over  their  tales  and  their  nuts  they  laughed 
till  they  cried,  and  roared  so  lustily  at  the  remem 
bered  frolics  of  their  youthful  days  that  the  old  par 
sonage  rang,  the  books  on  the  library  shelves  rat 
tled  and  several  of  the  theological  volumes  actually 
gaped  with  horror. 

But  at  last  the  stories  were  all  told,  the  jokes  all 
cracked,  the  laughter  all  laughed,  and  the  little  dea 
con  wished  the  parson  good-bye  and  jogged  hap 
pily  homeward.  But  more  than  once  he  laughed 
to  himself  and  said,  "Bless  my  soul,  I  didn't  know 
the  parson  had  so  much  fun  in  him." 

And  long  the  parson  sat  by  the  glowing  grate, 
after  the  deacon  had  left  him,  musing  of  other  days 
and  the  happy,  pleasant  things  that  were  in  them, 
and  many  times  he  smiled,  and  once  he  laughed 


c8  How  Deacon  Tubman  and 

tj 

outright  at  some  remembered  folly,  for  he  said : 
44  What  a  wild  boy  I  was,  and  yet  I  meant  no  wrong, 
and  the  dear  old  days  were  very  happy." 

Aye,  aye,  Parson  Whitney,  the  dear  old  days 
were  very  happy,  not  only  to  thee,  but  to  all  of  us, 
who,  following  our  sun,  have  faced  westward  so 
long  that  the  light  of  the  morning  shows  through 
the  dim  haze  of  memory.  But  happier  than  even 
the  old  days  will  be  the  young  ones,  I  ween,  when, 
following  still  westward,  we  suddenly  come  to  the 
gates  of  the  east  and  the  morning  once  more  ;  and 
there,  in  the  dawn  of  a  day  which  is  endless,  we 
find  our  lost  youth  and  its  loves,  to  lose  them  and 
it  no  more  forever,  thank  God. 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog 


E  was  a  tramp  —  that  is  all  he 
was  —  at  least  when  I  knew 
him.  What  he  had  been  be 
fore,  I  cannot  say,  as  he  never 
told  me  his  history.  Of  course 
every  tramp  has  a  history, 
even  as  every  leaf  that  the 
winds  blow  over  the  fields  has  its  history,  and  my 
old  tramp  doubtless  had  his,  and  God  knows  it 
must  have  been  sad  enough,  judging  by  his  looks, 
for  he  had  the  saddest  face  I  ever  looked  at,  and 
I've  seen  a  good  many  sad  faces  in  my  day. 

No,  he  was  nothing  but  a  tramp,  old  and  gray- 
headed,  and  nearly  worn  out  with  his  tramping. 
How  long  he  had  been  going  the  rounds  I  cannot 
say,  but  for  nearly  a  dozen  years,  once  each  year, 
he  made  his  appearance  in  the  city,  tarried  a 
month,  perhaps,  and  then  quietly  disappeared,  and 
we  saw  him  no  more  for  a  twelvemonth.  Inoffen- 


62  The  Old  Beggar's  Dog 

sive?  Decidedly  —  as  mild-mannered  a  man  as  ever 
asked  grace  at  a  poorhouse  table. 

Indeed,  the  children  were  his  best  patrons,  for 
he  had  a  most  winning  way  with  them,  and  he  could 
scarcely  be  seen  on  the  street  without  the  accom 
paniment  of  a  dozen,  tagging  at  his  heels  and 
holding  on  to  his  hands  and  the  skirts  of  his  long 
coat.  There's  Dick  there,  six  feet  if  he's  an  inch 
and  gone  twenty  last  month.  Well,  many  and 
many  a  time  have  I  seen  the  strapping  fellowr  when 
he  was  a  little  chap  .sitting  astride  the  old  vaga 
bond's  neck,  with  his  little  feet  crooked  in  under 
his  armpits,  laughing  and  screaming  uproariously 
as  his  human  horse  underneath  him  pranced  and 
curvetted  along  the  pavement,  and  charged 
through  the  flock  of  childish  admirers  around  him, 
as  if  they  were  a  hostile  soldiery  and  Dick  was  a 
very  Kerry  of  Navarre,  whose  white  plume  must 
always  be  found  in  the  path  to  glory. 

God  bless  the  youngsters  !  Who  of  us  with  the 
burden  oi  life's  toil  and  care  weighing  us  down, 

o  & 

ever  saw  a  frolicsome  group  of  them,  happy  in 
their  freedom  from  trouble  and  care,  and  did  not 
wish  he  might  slip  his  shoulders  from  under  the 
load  of  his  fifty  years  and  be  a  boy  again  ?  What 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  63 

a  pity  it  is  that  \ve  must  age  and  die  in  our  wrink 
les,  leaving  nothing  better  to  ga/e  upon  than  a 
shrunken  face,  colorless  of  bloom  and  written  all 
over  with  the  scraggy  record  of  our  griefs,  our 
errors,  and  our  pains  !  Why  cannot  death  charm 
back  the  boyish  vigor  and  girlish  grace  to  our 
faces,  when,  with  the  invisible  and  fatal  gesture, 
he  sweeps  his  hand  swiftly  across  them? 

The   dog?     Oh!  certainly;  but  don't  hurry  me. 
I'm  too  old  to  tell  a  story  in  a  straight  line  and  at 

J  c? 

express  speed.  I  will  get  to  the  dog  all  in  good 
time,  and,  in  order  to  feel  as  I  do  about  the  terri 
ble  thing  that  happened  to  him,  vou  must  know 
something  about  his  master,  for  in  an  odd  sort  of 
way  they  supplemented  each  other.  Indeed,  they 
seemed  to  have  entered  into  a  kind  ot  partnership 
to  share  each  other's  moods  as  they  shared  each 
other's  fortune.  And  it  was  a  strange,  and,  I  may 
say,  a  very  touching  sight,  to  see  two  creatures,  of 
different  species,  so  intimately  attached  to  each 
other;  and  often,  as  I  have  looked  at  the  dog  when 
he  was  gazing  at  his  master,  have  I  said  to  myself, 
"Surely,  something  or  someone  has  blundered, 
and  a  human  soul  was  put,  by  mistake,  into  that 
dog's  b'  dy,"  for  never — no,  sir,  I  will  not  qualify 


64  The  Old  Beggars  Dog 

it —  never  have  I  seen  a  greater  love  look  from 
human  into  human  eves  than  I  have  seen  gazing 

•/  o  o 

devotedly  up  into  the  old  man's  face  from  the  eyes 
of  that  dog.  How  did  he  look?  Queer  enough,  I 
assure  you,  for  his  cross,  while  an  admirable  one 
to  yield  wit  and  affection  both,  was  the  worst  pos 
sible  one  for  beauty,  for  his  father  was  a  full- 
blooded  shepherd  and  his  mother  a  Scotch  terrier, 
without  a  taint  in  her  blood. 

How  well  I  remember  the  dog  and  his  pecul 
iar  looks  !  I  remember  him  now  as  plainly  as  if 
he  were  lying  on  the  rug  there  this  very  minute. 
He  had  the  size  of  his  father  and  the  bristly  coat 
of  his  mother.  His  ears  were  like  a  terrier's,  and 
naturally  pricked  forward.  His  color  was  a  dirty 
gray  —  a  miserable  color;  his  tail  had  been  crop 
ped  and  the  remnant  that  remained  —  some  four 
inches  in  length  —  stood  stiffly  up,  with  scarce  a 
suggestion  of  a  curve ;  he  was  homely,  but  not 
inferior  looking,  for  his  head  was  such  an  one 

o 

as  Landseer  would  have  loved  to  have  translated 
from  time  and  death  to  the  immortality  of  his 
canvas  ;  what  a  matchless  front,  and  room  enough 
in  the  cranium  to  hold  the  brains  of  any  two  com 
mon  dogs.  But  his  eyes  were  the  impressive  and 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  65 

magnificent  feature  of  his  face — large,  round  and 
warmly  hazel  in  color,  and  so  liquid  clear  that, 
looking  into  them,  you  seemed  to  be  gazing  into 
transparent  depths,  not  of  water,  but  of  intelligent 
being.  What  eyes  they  were  !  I  remember  what 
a  young  lady  said  once  apropos  to  them.  She 
was  a  belle  herself,  and  nature  spoke  through 
her  speech.  She  came  into  the  office  here  one 
day  when  the  dog  was  performing,  for  he  was 
a  great  trick  dog,  and,  after  watching  him  a 
moment,  she  exclaimed,  "  Ah  !  if  a  woman  only 
had  those  eyes,  what  might  she  not  do  !  "  More 
fun  could  look  out  of  that  dog's  head  than  of  any 
other  I  ever  saw,  whether  of  dog  or  man.  And 
though  you  may  not  credit  it,  yet,  as  true  as  I  sit 
here,  I  have  seen  those  eyes  weep  as  large  and 
honest  tears  as  ever  fell  in  sorrow  from  human 
orbs.  "Laugh,  too?"  You  put  that  question  in 
credulously,  do  you?  Well,  you  needn't,  for  the 
dog  could  laugh.  "With  his  tail?"  No,  any  dog 
can  do  that,  but  he  could  laugh  with  his  mouth. 
Why,  sir,  I  have  seen  him  sit  bolt  upright  on  his 
haunches  there  by  that  post,  lean  his  back  against 
it,  and  laugh  so  heartily  that  his  mouth  would  open 
and  shut  like  a  man's  when  guffawing,  and  you 


66 


The  Old  Beggar  s  Dog 


could  see  every  tootli  in  his  head,   and  he   did   it 

intelligently, 
too,  and  laugh 
ed  because  he 
was  tickled  and 
couldn't  help  it. 
Alas  !  poor 
dog,  he  came  to 
a  sad  end  at 
last,  and  died 
in  so  wretched 
a  way  that  the 
recollection  of 
his  death  puts 
a  dark  eclipse 
upon  the  un 
happy  memory 
of  his  life. 


You   may   wrell 
say    that;    and 

1  lie  old    man  and    his   dog  lucre  constant 

companion*.  ii  o    man   ever 

loved  his   child  more   fondly  than  the  old  beggar 
loved  his  clog.     And  well  he  might,  for  he  was  his 


The  Old  Beggar  s  Dog  67 

companion  by  day,  his  guard  by  night,  and  the 
means  by  which  he  eked  out  the  sometime  scant 
living  that  the  fickle  charity  of  the  world  flung  to 
him.  How  often  have  I  seen  the  old  man  take 
him  in  his  arms  and  hug  him  to  his  breast,  that 
had,  I  fancy,  so  many  bitter  memories  in  it ;  and 
how  often  have  I  seen  the  dog  lap  with  gentle  and 
caressing  tongue  the  tears  as  they  rolled  down  the 
furrowed  cheeks,  when  the  fountain  of  grief  within 
was  stirred  by  the  angel  of  recollection.  But  it 
was  from  the  sympathy  of  his  faithful  and  loving 
companion,  and  not  from  the  moving  of  the  bitter 
waters,  that  his  aching  heart  found  consolation. 

Tell  you  about  the  man?  Why,  certainly ;  but 
there  isn't  much  to  tell.  You  see,  no  one  knew 
much,  of  him,  for  he  seldom  if  ever  spoke  of  him 
self.  I  suppose  I  knew  him  better  than  anyone  on 
his  beat  here,  for  I  fell  in  love  with  his  dog,  and 
with  himself,  too,  for  that  matter,  for,  in  the  first 
place,  he  was  old,  and  whoever  saw  a  white  head 
and  didn't  love  it,  and  whoever  looked  upon  a 
wrinkled  face  and  didn't  wish  to  kiss  it,  if  it  was 
peaceful,  and  the  old  man's  head  was  as  white 
as  snow  is,  and  the  peacefulness  of  a  sleeping  child 
hovered  over  the  sadness  of  his  face,  albeit  the 


68  The  Old  Beggar's  Dog 

shadow  of  a  sorrowful  past  lay  darkly  resting  upon 
it.  But  though  I  saw  much  of  him  as  he  swung 
around  on  his  annual  visit,  and  though  he  looked 
upon  me  as  his  friend  —  as,  indeed,  I  was,  and 
proved  myself  to  be  such  more  than  once,  thank 
God  !  —  still  he  never  offered  to  tell  me  his  history, 
and  I  certainly  never  questioned  him  about  it. 
For  life  is  a  secret  thing,  and  each  man  holds  the 
key  to  his  own  ;  and  only  once,  if  at  all,  may  it 
be  opened,  and  even  then  only  the  Father  is  gentle 
and  forgiving  enough  to  look  upon  the  wheat  and 
the  chaff  which  we  in  our  grief  or  joy  keep  closely 
locked  from  human  eyes. 

No,  I  knew  little  of  him  ;  but  occasionally,  sit 
ting  by  the  fire  here  when  a  storm  was  heavy 
outside,  for  the  coming  of  storms  was  always 
the  prelude  of  these  moods  in  him,  he  would 
begin  to  mutter  to  himself,  and  to  talk  to  his 
dog  of  days  long  gone ;  of  men  and  women 
he  had  once  hated  or  loved,  or  who  loved  or 
hated  him  —  God  knows  which  —  and  of  deeds 
he  had  once  done,  but  which  were  now  deeply 
buried  under  the  years. 

Perhaps  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  talking. 
Perhaps  his  soul,  busy  with  the  past,  forgot 


77/6'  Old  Beggar's  Dog  69 

the  motion  of  the  lips  and  ceased  to  keep  its  watch 
over  the  movements  of  that  member  which,  unless 
ceaselessly  guarded,  betrays  us  all  so  often.  What 
did  he  mutter  about?  Well,  the  man  is  dead  and 
gone,  and  what  little  there  is  to  tell  cannot  pain 
him  now.  Death  makes  us  indifferent  to  disclos 
ure,  and  little  do  we  care  what  the  world  says  about 
us  when  we  lie  sleeping  in  the  grave,  I  ween. 
Yes,  the  man  is  dead  and  gone  this  many  a  year; 
God  rest  his  soul,  and  I  heartily  hope  he  has  found 
riches  and  rest  and  his  dog  ere  now,  as  I  feel  cer 
tain  he  has,  and  what  little  I  know  can  do  no  harm, 
if  told,  to  any. 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  when  storms  were  brew 
ing  in  the  air  and  the  sea,  the  uneasiness  of  the 
elements  themselves  seemed  to  take  possession  of 
his  soul  and  agitate  it, —  for  his  very  body  wrould 
rock  to  and  fro  and  sway  in  the  chair  when  the  fit 
was  on  him,  and  he  would  talk  to  his  dog,  and  to 
men  and  women,  too,  whom  no  one  could  see  save 
himself,  and  if  what  he  said  might  be  taken  as  the 
words  of  a  sane  man,  he  certainly  had  been  rich 
and  powerful  one  day  —  and  loved  and  hated,  too, 
for  that  matter.  For  from  his  speech  one  could 
but  learn  that  all  that  makes  life  worth  the  living 


The  Old  Bear's  Do 


was  once  his,  and  that  he  had  lost  it  all  —  but  what 
ever  may  have  been  his  other  losses,  one  there 
must  have  been  in  truth,  for  as  to  it  his  words  were 
always  the  same:  "  Gone,  gone,"  he  would  sav, 
"gone  —  and  the  winds  I  hear  coming  blow  over 
her  grave  —  but  winds  cannot  reach  her,  for  she 
lies  warm  and  well  covered,  deep  down  in  her 
grave."  And  so  he  would  sit  muttering  and  sway 
ing  his  bodv  in  the  chair,  as  the  winds  blew  storm- 
ily  out  of  the  east,  and  the  boom  of  the  waves 
rolled  up  from  the  bluff,  as  they  pounded  heavily 
against  the  rocks  and  the  shore. 

Why  did  I  not  make  him  settle  down  ?  Because 
he  wouldn't.  I  tried  time  and  again  to  persuade 
him  to  it,  but  he  never  would  consent.  Perhaps 
he  was  right  in  his  impulse  to  roam,  and  loved  the 
careless  freedom  of  it,  and  the  solitude  it  gave 
him.  For  if  a  man  would  hide  himself  from  man 
he  must  keep  on  the  move.  If  he  stops  he  becomes 
known.  But  in  travel  he  loses  his  identity,  and 
passes  from  place  to  place  unknown  and  unnoted. 

But  it  seemed  pitiful  to  me  that  one  so  old  and 
feeble  should  have  no  home,  and  so  I  persuaded 
him  to  settle  down  for  one  winter,  at  least,  and 
hired  him  a  little  house  in  a  pleasant  street  and 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  71 

started  him  in  his  housekeeping  experiment.  But 
alas  !  evil  came  of  it,  and  I  never  did  a  deed  I 
more  profoundly  regretted,  for  it  led  to  the  calam 
ity  I  am  about  to  tell  you  of,  and  brought  upon  the 
poor  man  the  greatest  grief  that  might  befall  him, 
even  the  death  of  his  dog,  and  in  a  most  cruel  and 
painful  fashion  at  that.  Ah,  me  !  could  we  but  see 
the  end  of  things  from  their  beginning,  how  little 
of  our  doing  would  be  done  at  times ;  for  the 
benevolent  blundering  of  our  lives  is  as  often  fruit- 

c> 

ful  of  harm  as  the  evil  we  do  in  our  malice  and 
passion. 

It  all   happened     in    this    way,    and    I    will    tell 
you  as  it  was  told  me,  partly  by  the  old  man  him 
self,   and   nartlv  by  those  who  had  knowledge  of 
i         j      *  t> 

the  dreadlul  event  at  the  time,  for  I  was  out  of  the 
city  the  morning  the  occurrence  took  place,  or  it 
never  would  have  happened.  I  don't  think  any 
thing  of  the  kind  ever  before  made  so  much  talk, 
or  excited  so  much  indignation. 

The  legislature  at  its  last  session,  not  having 
wit  or  honesty  enough  to  exercise  itself  over  one  of 
a  dozen  crying  evils  that  were  then  vexing  the  peo 
ple,  got  greatly  excited  over — dog's! 

Some  miserable  curs  —  many  affirmed  they  were 


72  The  Old  Beggar's  Dog 

wolves,  and  no  dogs  at  all  —  in  a  remote  corner  of 
the  state,  had  killed  a  few  sheep,  and  the  farmers 
of  that  region  got  up  a  great  scare,  and  raised  a 
hue  and  cry  against  the  whole  canine  family.  It  is 
incredible  how  much  noise  was  made  over  the  kill 
ing  of  a  few  half-starved  sheep  that  were  browsing 
on  those  northern  mountains !  You  would  have 
thought,  judging  by  the  clamor,  that  the  funda 
mental  interests  of  the  commonwealth  were  at 
tacked,  and  that  the  stately  structure  of  govern 
ment  itself  was  on  the  point  of  falling  to  the  ground. 
Well,  when  the  legislature  met  the  excitement 
was  at  its  height  and  the  gust  of  popular  foolish 
ness  converged  all  its  forces  at  the  capitol.  In 
due  time  a  bill  was  reported,  and  an  outrageous  bill 
it  was,  too,  for  it  not  only  put  a  heavy  tax  upon 
dogs  in  every  section  of  the  state,  city  as  well  as 
country,  but  provided  that  certain  officers  should  be 
appointed  to  enforce  the  law,  whose  duty  it  should 
be  to  kill  every  dog  not  duly  registered  on  a  certain 
date.  Even  this  was  not  all ;  for  it  stimulated  the 
enforcement  of  the  law  by  enlisting  the  cupidity  of 
men  and  boys  alike,  especially  of  the  lower  and 
hardened  classes,  by  providing  that  whoever  killed 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  73 

an  unregistered  dog  should  be  paid  three  dollars 
from  the  state  treasury. 

It  was  a  bad  law,  in  truth,  for  it  was  the  out 
growth  of  senseless  excitement,  and  an  attempt  to 
tax  the  affections.  Property,  of  course,  can  be 
taxed,  but  we  all  know  that  a  dog  is  not  property, 
any  more  than  is  a  boy's  pet  rabbit,  or  a  child,  for 
that  matter.  A  dog  is  a  member  of  his  master's 
family.  He  has  connection  with  his  heart,  not 
with  his  pocket.  lie  is  a  creature  to  love  and  be 
loved  by,  and  not  to  be  bought  and  sold  like  a  bit 
of  land  or  a  yoke  of  oxen,  and  any  law  aimed  at 
the  affections  is  an  offence  to  the  holiest  impulses 
of  the  bosom,  and  as  such  should  be  resented. 

Yes,  the  law  was  a  bad  one.  I  did  what  I  could 
to  defeat  it  in  its  passage,  and  I  broke  it  all  I  could 
after  its  passage,  and  that  was  some  satisfaction  to 
my  feelings,  which  were  in  fact  outraged  by  it ;  for 
I  saw  not  only  the  injustice  of  it,  as  viewed  in  the 
light  of  correct  principle,  but  that  it  would  bear 
heavily  upon  the  poor,  and  bring  sorrow  like  the 
sorrow  of  death  itself  into  families.  I  sawr,  more 
over,  that  it  was  a  cruel  law  in  its  relation  to  child 
ren,  whose  pretty  and  harmless  pets  and  play 
mates  could  be  murdered  before  their  very  eyes. 


The  Old  Bear's 


Many  a  sad  case  did  I  hear  of,  the  winter  after  the 
law  was  passed,  but  the  saddest  of  all  was  that  of  my 
old  friend,  who  was  living  peaceful! v  and  happily 
with  his  dog  in  the  little  house  I  had  hired  for  him. 

lie  was  sit 
ting  one  even 
ing  in  the  com 
fortable  quar 
ters  I  had  pro 
vided  for  him, 
playing  with 
his  companion 
and  teaching 

O 

him   some  new 


tricks  to  prac 
tise  against  my 
return,  happy 
as  he  might 

lie  ti'rts  teaching  the  (fosf  a  tie-v  trick.  b  C,       W  h  (.'  11       a 

a  loud  rap  was  delivered  upon  his  door,  and  at  the 
same  instant  it  was  pushed  rudelv  open,  and  a  man 
walked  into  the  room  and,  without  pausing  to  give  or 
receive  a  greeting,  pointed  to  the  dog,  and  said  : 

"Is  that  your  property,  sir  ?" 

"I  never  think  of  him  in  that  way,"  answered 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  VS 

the  old  man,  mildly.  "He  has  been  my  compan 
ion —  I  may  say  my  only  companion  —  these  many 
years,  and  I  love  him  as  property  is  not  loved. 
Xo,  sir,  Trusty  is  not  property  —  he  is  my  compan 
ion  and  mv  iriend." 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  listen  to  any  of  your 
cra/y  nonsense,  but  as  an  officer  of  the  law,  to  see 
if  you  have  registered  your  dog,  and  paid  your  tax 
as  it  commands,  and,  if  you  hadn't,  to  see  that  the 
penalty  was  put  upon  you  as  you  deserve,  you  old 
be<r<nn<f  loafer,  you." 

O  O         C3  *' 

"  I've  broken  no  law  that  I  know  of,"  replied  the 
beggar,  "  I  love  my  dog,  that  is  all.  I  hope  it 
breaks  no  law  for  a  man  to  love  his  dog  in  this 
city,  does  it,  friend?  " 

"  If  you  don't  know  what  the  law  is,  you'd  bet 
ter  find  out,'' answered  the  fellow,  roughly.  "What 
right  have  you  to  own  a  dog,  anyway?  It  strikes 
me  that  it  is  about  enough  for  you  to  sponge  your 
own  living  out  ot  the  community,  without  spong 
ing  another  for  a  miserable  whelp  of  a  dog  like 
that." 

"  Trusty  eats  very  little,"  replied  the  old  man, 
respectfully,  "  and  he  amuses  people  a  great  deal, 
especially  the  children  ;  and,  besides,  he  is  a  great 


76  The  Old  Beggars  Dog 

comfort  to  me,  and  God  knows  that  I  have  nothing 
else  to  comfort  me  in  all  the  world  —  wealth,  home, 
friends,  and  one  dearer  than  all, — all  lost,  and 
thou'rt  all  I  have  left,  Trusty,  to  comfort  me,"  and 
he  looked  affectionately  at  his  companion,  whose 
head  was  resting  lovingly  on  his  knee. 

"  Oh,  I've  heard  the  whining  of  your  class 
before  to-night,"  replied  the  fellow,  "  and  am  not 
to  be  taken  in  by  any  of  your  sniffling,  so  you 
needn't  try  that  trick  on  me.  Law  is  law,  and  I 
shall  see  it  enforced,  and  on  you,  too,  in  spite  of 
your  shuffling,  you  miserable  old  sneak  of  a  beg 
gar,  you." 

"  Friend,"  answered  the  old  man  with  dignity, 
as  he  rose  from  the  chair  and  looked  the  fellow 
calmly  in  the  face,  "better  men  than  you  or  I  have 
begged  their  daily  bread  before  now,  and  eaten  it, 
too,  with  an  honest  conscience  and  a  grateful 
heart,  and  more  than  once  when  night  has  over 
taken  me,  weary  of  journeying  along  inhospitable 
roads,  and  I  have  been  compelled  to  make  my  bed 
on  the  leaves  under  some  hedge,  I've  remembered 
that  the  Son  of  God  when  on  the  earth  to  teach  us 
the  sweet  lesson  of  charity,  'had  not  where  to  lav 
his  head.'  The  lesson  he  came  to  teach,  you  cer- 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  77 

tainly  have  not  learned,  or  you  would  never  have 
made  my  poverty  and  my  misfortunes  the  butt  of 
your  scoffings." 

The  old  man  spoke  with  dignity,  but  the  coarse 
ness  of  the  fellow's  nature  and  the  hardening  influ 
ence  of  the  business  he  was  engaged  in  prevented 
him  from  feeling  either  shame  or  sympathy,  for  he 
turned  toward  the  door  with  an  oath,  saying : 
"You'll  hear  from  me  in  the  morning,  old  chap, 
but  I'll  tell  you  this  to  chew  on  over  night ;  that  if 
your  tax  money  isn't  ready  when  I  come  again,  I'll 
teach  you  what  it  is  to  break  the  laws  in  this  city, 
and  insult  the  officers  whose  duty  it  is  to  see  them 
enforced  against  just  such  white-headed  old  dead- 
beats  as  you!"  and  with  another  oath,  he  passed 
out  of  the  door  and  shut  it  with  a  slam. 

I  don't  know  how  the  old  man  passed  the  night. 
But  little  sleep,  I  warrant,  came  to  his  old  eyes,  for 
he  was  as  timid  as  a  child,  and  easily  frightened, 
and  a  threat  against  his  own  life  would  -have  dis 
turbed  him  less  than  one  against  the  life  of  his 
dog.  But  whether  he  slept  or  not,  the  hours  of 
the  night  wheeled  along  their  dark  courses  without 
stopping,  and  speedily  brought  the  dreaded  morn 
ing.  I  know  not  when  he  died,  or  where,  but  well 


78  The  Old  Beggars  Dog 

I  know  that  the  memory  of  that  dreadful  morning 
and  the  woe  that  came  to  him  on  it  haunted  him  to 
the  close  of  his  life,  and  embittered  the  last  hours 
of  it. 

The  morning  came  as  all  mornings,  whether  they 
bring  joy  or  grief  to  us,  do  come.  The  threat  the 
fellow  had  uttered  against  his  dog  the  evening 
before  had  naturally  disturbed  him  and  the  old  man 
was  nervous  and  excited,  but  he  managed  to  cook 
his  frugal  breakfast  and  eat  it  with  his  companion. 
I  can  well  imagine  his  thoughts  and  his  worriment. 
"Law!  what  law?"  I  can  hear  him  say.  "I've 
broken  no  law.  I've  only  loved  and  been  loved  by 
my  dog.  That's  not  wicked,  surely.  He  said  he'd 
come  again,  and  if  I  didn't  have  the  money  ready. 
Money  !  what  money?  He  knows  I've  no  money. 
Tax  !  what  tax?  Do  they  tax  a  man's  heart  in  this 

*t 

city?  Can't  a  man  love  anything  here  unless  he's 
rich?  Kill  mv  docj !  I  don't  believe  it.  There  isn't 

*/  o 

a  man  on  the  earth  wicked  enough  to  kill  an  old 
man's  dog,  an  old  man's  harmless  dog ;  no,  he 
didn't,  he  couldn't  mean  that !  he  just  said  it  to 
scare  me.  Yes,  yes,  I  see  now  ;  he'd  been  drink 
ing  and  he  said  it  just  to  scare  me."  Thus,  as  I 
fancy,  the  poor  old  man  sat  muttering  to  himself, 


The  Old  Beggar  s  Dog  79 

listening  with  dread  to  every  passing  step,  listening 
and  muttering  to  himself,  while  his  old  heart 
quaked  in  his  bosom,  and  his  soul,  which  had  so 
little  to  cheer  it,  as  it  journeyed  along  its  lonely 
path,  was  sorelv  tried  and  disquieted  within  him. 

The  clock  in  a  neighboring  steeple  was  striking 
the  ninth  hour,  and  the  old  man  paused  in  his  mut 
tering  and  sat  counting  the  strokes  as  the  iron 
tongue  pealed  them  forth  ;  counting  them  in  his 
fear  as  if  each  stroke  was  a  knell,  and  so  indeed  to 
him  it  was,  and  man}'  of  the  chimes  we  listen  care 
lessly  to,  would  be  knells  to  us,  if  we  knew  what 
would  happen  twixt  them  and  their  next  chiming. 

The   vibration   of    the    last   stroke  was   swelling 

o 

and  sinking  in  the  air,  when  a  heavy  step  sounded 
on  the  stair,  and  without  even  the  ceremony  of 
knocking,  the  door  was  pushed  suddenly  open,  and 
the  fellow,  who  had  intruded  upon  him  the  evening 
before,  entered  the  room.  In  one  hand  he  held  a 
rope  and  in  the  other  a  club. 

"Well,  old  chap,''  he  said,  ''you  see  I  am  here 
as  I  told  you  I  would  be.  I've  given  you  a  whole 
night  to  study  up  the  law." 

"Law!    what   law?"    exclaimed    the    old    man, 


§0  The  Old  Beggar's  Dog 

interrupting     him,     "  I    don't     know    that    I    have 
broken " — 

"Come,  come,  old  shuffler,  none  of  your  blarney, 
if  yon  please,"  broke  in  the  fellow;  "yon  know 
well  enough  what  law  I  mean.  I  mean  the  dog- 
law." 

"Dog-law!  dog-law!"  answered  the  old  man, 
"  what  law  is  that?  " 

"  Oh,  you  don't  pull  the  wool  over  my  eyes," 
sneered  the  other;  "you  know  what  law  I  mean 
well  enough,  but,  to  jog  your  memory,  I'll  say  that 
the  law  I  mean  makes  the  owner  of  a  dog  pay  a 
tax  of  three  dollars,  and  if  the  tax  isn't  paid  "- 

"Three  dollars!"  ejaculated  the  poor  man. 
"  Three  dollars  !  when  have  I  had  so  much  money 
as  that?  Three  dollars!  you  might  as  well  have 
asked  me  to  pay  three  thousand  as  three." 

"Very   well,    very  well,"  exclaimed   the   other; 
"the    law     covers     just    such     cases    as    yours  — 
covers  them  perfectly,"  and  he  laughed   a  coarse, 
cruel  laugh.      "  Out  with  the  money,  or  I  take  the 
dog." 

"  Take  my  dog  !  "  screamed  the  old  man,  "  take 
Trusty  !  What  should  you  take  him  for?  You  can't 
want  him." 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  8l 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  old  fellow,"  retorted  the  other; 
"  I  want  him  very  much  indeed,  I  know  just  what 
to  do  with  him,  I'll  see  to  that." 

"Do  with  him?"  cried  the  other,  whose  mind, 
perhaps  because  paralyzed  by  fear,  perhaps  because 
of  the  enormity  of  the  deed,  would  not  receive  the 
horrible  suggestion,  "what  would  you  do  with 
Trusty?" 

"Kill  him,  damn  you!"  shouted  the  other; 
"  kill  him  as  I  have  a  hundred  other  curs  this  fall 
and  pocket  the  money  the  law  gives  me  for  doing 
it.  Do  you  understand  that,  you  old  dead-beat?" 

For  a  moment  the  wretched  man  never  spoke, 
his  lips  paled  to  the  color  of  ashes,  and  shrivelled 
as  if  suddenly  parched  against  the  teeth,  and  he 
clutched  the  back  of  a  chair  for  support.  Twice 
he  essayed  to  speak,  his  lips  moved,  but  his  tongue 
in  its  dryness  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth.  At 
last  he  gasped  forth  in  the  hoarse  whisper  of  mor 
tal  terror : 

"Kill  my  dog  !  kill  Trusty  !  " 

It  was  a  sorry  sight,  truly,  and  might  well  touch 
the   hardest  heart.     But  the  officer  of  the  law- 
God  save  the  mark ! —  remained  unmoved.     What 
was  one   dog  more   or  less  to   him?   had   he    not 


82  The  Old  Beggars  Dog 

already  killed  hundreds,  as  he  said?  The  sports 
man's  favorite  hunter,  astray  without  his  collar,  the 
lady's  pet,  crying  pitifully  in  the  street,  unable  to 
find  its  mistress's  door,  the  children's  playmate, 
waiting  in  front  of  the  school  house  for  school  to 
close,  the  poor  man's  help  and  comfort,  his  house 
hold's  joy,  guardian  and  friend,  caught  in  the 
street  on  his  return  from  his  humble  master,  to 
whom  he  carried  his  homely  dinner.  What  was 
one  dog  more  or  less  to  him,  hardened  by  the  mur 
derous  habit  of  his  office  and  eager  to  earn  his 
wretched  fee, —  what  was  one  dog  more  or  less  to 
him  ? 

"Come,  come,"  he  cried,  as  he  uncoiled  the 
rope  he  held  in  his  hand,  "  out  with  the  money  or 
1  take  the  dog." 

"I low  much  is  it?  how  much  is  it?"  cried  the 
old  man,  fumbling  in  his  pockets  and  bringing 
forth  a  few  small  pieces  of  silver  and  some  pennies. 
"Here  take  it,  take  it,  it's  all  I  have  —  there's  a 
ten-cent  piece,  isn't  it?  and  there's  two  fives,  and 
here,  yes,  God  be  praised,  here's  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar;  Trusty  earned  that  yesterday.  Let's  see, 
twenty-five,  that's  the  quarter,  and  ten  is  thirty-five, 
and  two  fives,  that  makes  forty-five,  and  eight 


83 

pennies,  that  makes  fifty-three  cents ;  won't  that 
do?  It's  every  cent  I  have,  as  God  is  my  witness 
—  it  will  do,  won't  it?"  And  the  old  man  seized 
one  of  the  hands  of  the  fellow,  and  strove  to  put 
his  little  hoarding  into  it. 

But  the  hard-hearted  wretch  drew  his  hand  back 
with  a  jerk,  and,  seizing  the  dog  by  the  neck, 
slipped  the  rope  over  his  head  and  saying,  "The 
law  allows  me  four  times  that  for  killing  him," 
opened  the  door  and  pulled  the  poor  dog  out  after 
him  into  the  street. 

"  God  of  heaven  !  "  screamed  the  poor  old  man, 
as  he  rushed,  bareheaded  as  he  was,  out  of  the 
door,  and  hurried  in  pursuit  of  the  man,  who  was 
pulling  the  dog  along  and  walking  as  fast  as  he 
could,  while  Trusty  struggled  and  cried  and  did 
all  he  could  to  get  rid  of  the  rope.  "Where  is 
thy  justice  or  thy  mercy?  Oh,  sir;  oh,  sir;"  he 
shouted,  running  after  the  man,  "  give  me  back 
my  dog;  oh,  give  him  back  to  me,  good  people;" 
he  cried,  for  his  own  cries  and  those  of  the  dog, 
too,  had  already  drawn  a  crowd  to  the  scene, 
"  good  people,  tell  him  not  to  kill  my  dog." 

It  was  to  the  honor  of  the  crowd  that  they  hooted 
the  officer  roundly,  and  called  on  him  and  shouted, 


84  The  Old  Beggar's  Dog 

"  Give  the  old  man  back  his  clog,"  and  greater 
honor  yet  to  them  that  some  of  the  boys  pelted  him 
with  snowballs  and  junks  of  ice  as  he  hurried  on, 
and  one  brawny  chap,  sitting  on  the  seat  of  his 
cart,  struck  him  a  stinging  blow  with  his  black 
whip  as  he  scuttled  past,  with,  "Damn  you,  take 
that,  for  killing  my  dog."  The  officer  shook  his 
club  at  the  honest  fellow  and  said,  "I'll  pay  you 
for  that,  see  if  I  don't,"  but  he  dared  not  stop  to 
make  the  arrest,  for  the  crowd  was  thickening  and 
the  air  getting  fuller  of  missiles,  and  every  door 
and  window  \vas  hooting  him  as  he  passed  them, 
with  the  poor  dog  crying  and  moaning  pitifully  at 
his  heels.  Even  the  women,  God  bless  them  (for 
the  feeling  against  the  law  ran  high  in  the  city), 
opened  the  doors  and  lifted  the  windows  of  their 
houses,  the  ladies  crying,  "  Shame  on  you,  shame 
on  you  !  "  and  the  cooks  and  chamber  maids  from 
the  nadir  and  zenith  of  their  household  worlds, 
with  homelier  and  more  piquant  phrase  and  saucier 
tongues,  scoffed  him  for  the  miserable  \vork  he  was 
doing  ;  but  in  spite  of  the  popular  uprising,  now 
almost  swelled  to  the  dimensions  of  a  mob,  and 
the  verbal  uproar,  through  the  hoarse  murmur  of 
which  the  boy's  gibe,  the  woman's  taunt  and  the 


was  to  the  honor  of  the  crowd  that  they  hooted  the  officer 
roundly." 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  87 

strong  man's  curse,  came  and  smote  upon  him  in 
volleys,  still  he  clutched  the  rope  and  rushed 
along,  threatening  the  crowd  that  was  closing  in 
ahead  of  him  with  his  club,  and  so  making  head 
way  on  his  dreadful  errand,  while  the  poor  old 
man,  unable  to  keep  up  with  him,  was  filling  the 
air  with  his  cries,  and,  without  knowing  what  he 
was  saying,  perhaps,  kept  calling  on  the  people, 
saying,  "Oh,  good  people,  good  people,  don't  let 
him  kill  my  dog." 

Indeed,  his  grief  was  piteous  to  see,  for  he  was 
half  distraught  with  fear,  and  like  as  a  mother 
whose  child  had  been  snatched  from  her  and  was 
being  hurried  to  death,  so  he,  with  tears,  sobs  and 
screams,  kept  entreating  one  moment  the  crowd 
and  the  next  beseeching  heaven,  saying,  "Don't 
let  him  kill  my  dog,"  and  being  an  old  man  and 
white-headed,  and  as  his  countenance  and  gestures 
were  eloquent  with  the  eloquence  of  true  grief,  the 
people  were  filled  with  pity  for  him  and  their  hearts 
melted  with  sympathy  at  the  piteous  spectacle  they 
beheld. 

Then  up  spake  the  honest  carter,  saying, 
"  Friends,  let's  give  the  old  man  a  lift,  for  it's  a 
shame  that  one  so  old  should  lose  his  do<r-  How 


88  The  Old  Beggars  Dog 

much  is  it  you  lack  of  the  tax?"  he  asked  of  the 
poor  old  gentleman  as  he  came  panting  up.  But 
he  was  so  confused  and  tremulous  with  terror  that 
he  could  not  answer,  and  so  being  unable  to  do 
more  he  stretched  his  old  shaken  hands  in  which 
the  money  was  still  tightly  clutched,  up  to  him, 
but  the  old  hands  shook  so  that  the  carter  could 
not  count  it,  until  he  had  taken  it  into  his  own 
steady  palm. 

"  Here's  fifty  cents  and  a  few  odd  pennies,"  he 
shouted,  k'  and  the  law  demands  three  dollars  ;  two 
dollars  and  a  half  is  wanted  ;  who'll  help  make  up 
the  three  dollars  and  save  the  old  man's  clou? 

o 

Here's  fifty  cents,''  he  added  as  he  took  a  silver 
half-dollar  from  his  pocket  and  dropped  it  into  the 
hat,  "  it's  half  I  earnt  yesterday,  and  more  than 
I'll  earn  to-day,  perhaps,  for  times  be  dull,  but  the 
old  man  shall  have  it,  if  Mary  and  I  go  without 
sugar  and  tea  for  a  week." 

'Twas  a  good  speech  and  bravely  said,  and  the 
crowd  responded  to  it  as  bravely,  for  it  fairly  rained 
dimes  and  quarters  and  pennies,  not  only  into  the 
carter's  hat  until  it  sagged,  but  into  his  cart,  too, 
until  the  bottom  of  it  was  speckled  all  over  with 
copper  and  silver  coin,  and  the  honest  fellow  held 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  89 

up  his  hands  for  the  crowd  to  give  no  more,  cry- 
inn  : 

O 

"Hold,  hold  !  Here's  enough,  and  more  than 
enough." 

But  he  could  scarcely  make  himself  heard,  be 
cause  of  the  cheering  and  the  laughing  and  the 
rattling  of  the  pieces  as  the  crowd  continued  to 
rain  them  all  the  faster  into  his  cart.  Ah,  me, 
what  is  that  sweet  something  in  human  hearts, 
which,  in  its  response  to  human  want,  translates  us 
like  a  flash  from  low  to  highest  mood  ;  aye,  which 
breakelh  through  all  barriers  of  selfish  habit,  and 
even  the  adamantine  of  foreign  tongues  and  pour- 
eth  out  its  rich  largess  in  a  common  tide  to  meet  a 
brother's  need,  where'er  that  brother  is  or  whatever 
he  may  be? 

But  the  old  man  did  not  wait  to  gather  up  the 
offerings  of  the  generous  and  sympathetic  crowd, 
but  snatching  a  handful  of  silver  from  the  carter's 
hat  pushed  his  way  out  of  the  jam,  and,  holding 
the  hand  in  which  he  clutched  the  silver  high 
above  his  head,  hurried  on  after  the  officer,  crying 
at  the  top  of  his  voice  :  "  Here's  the  money,  here's 
the  money ;  oh,  good  people,"  for  the  street  was 
nearly  blocked  with  those  that  swarmed  thickly  in 


90  The  Old  ficggar's  Dog 

the  wake  of  the  officer  and  he  could  make  but  slow 
progress  through  it.  "tell  him  I  have  the  money 
and  am  coming  ;  don't  let  him  go  any  farther  ;  I 
shall  never  catch  him  ;  stop  him,  stop  him,  for  the 
love  of  heaven,  stop  him  ;  here's  the  money."  And 
thus  crying  aloud  and  calling,  with  his  thin,  tremu 
lous  voice,  upon  the  officer  to  stop,  he  ran  franti 
cally  along  the  street,  as  fast  as  he  could,  in  pursuit. 

But  it  is  certain  that  the  old  man  would  not  have 
caught  up  with  the  officer  had  the  latter  been  unin 
terrupted  in  his  progress,  for  the  street  was  filled 
with  people  and  he  could  not  push  his  way  with 
much  speed  because  of  his  feebleness,  but  fortune, 
or  perhaps  I  should  say  misfortune,  favored  him, 
so  that  he  shortly  overtook  the  object  of  his  pursuit 
and  came  up  with  the  oflicer  and  the  dog.  But, 
alas!  his  old  heart  got  little  gain  thereby,  but  a 
grievous  loss,  rather,  for  when  he  came  to  the  spot 
both  lay  stretched  senseless  on  the  ground,  the  man 
knocked  flat  to  the  earth  by  the  fist  of  an  indig 
nant  citizen,  and  the  dog  lying  with  his  skull 
broken  in  by  a  brutal  blow  from  the  fellow's  club. 

When  the  old  man  came  to  the  spot  where  the 
dog  and  the  officer  lay,  lie  stopped,  and  when  he 
saw  what  had  happened,  the  money  he  had 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  91 

brought  with  which  to  deliver  his  dog,  fell  rattling, 
unheeded  to  the  ground,  and  then  he  raised  his 
palms  toward  heaven,  as  if  entreating  the  ven 
geance  or  the  benignity  of  the  skies,  and  with  tears 
streaming  down  his  cheeks,  he  lifted  up  his  voice 
and  wept,  saying:  "Oh,  God,  he's  killed  my 
dog!"  And  then  he  sank  down  all  in  a  heap,  as 
if  he  would  die  beside  his  dying  dog,  for  the  dog 
was  not  yet  dead,  but  dying. 

This  his  master  soon  perceived,  and  heedless  of 
the  multitude  who  thronged  the  street  from  side  to 
side,  he  lifted  the  dying  dog  into  his  lap  and  laid 
his  poor  crushed  head  against  his  breast  and 
mourned  over  him  as  a  mother,  deserted  by  hus 
band  and  friends,  might  mourn  for  an  only  babe 
when,  alone  in  a  foreign  land,  it  lay  on  her  bosom 
dving ;  and  the  multitude,  who,  by  this,  had 
knowledge  of  the  dreadful  deed,  stood  in  silence 
while  he  mourned. 

'•Trust}',  Trusty,"  lie  said,  "  do  you  know  me, 
Trust}'?"  and  his  tears  fell  fast  into  the  dog's 
bristly  coat.  The  poor  creature,  now  far  gone  in 
that  unconsciousness  which  deafens  the  ear  to  the 
voice  of  love  itself,  still  faintly  heard  the  familiar 
tones,  for  lie  lifted  his  eyes  to  his  master's  face  and 
nestled  closer  into  his  bosom.  It  was  a  touching 

C5 

sight,  in  truth,  and  those  who  stood   close  enough 


92  The  Old  Beggar  s  Dog 

to  see  the  moving  spectacle,  wiped  their  own  eyes, 
divinely  moist  with  the  mist  of  sympathy. 

It  was  evident  to  all,  and  to  the  old  man  himself, 
that  above  and  around  and  closing  in  upon  them 
was  the  mystery  which  men  call  death  —  a  mystery 
as  inscrutable  as  it  hovers  over  the  kennel  and  sta 
ble  as  when  it  enters  the  habitations  of  men — and 
that  in  a  few  moments  the  life  still  within  the  body 
of  the  poor  animal,  with  all  its  powers  of  doing,  of 
thinking,  and  of  loving,  would  depart  the  struct 
ure  in  which  it  had  found  so  pleasant  an  abode  and 
so  facile  a  medium  ot  expression. 

For  a  few  moments  nothing  more  was  said  ;  the 
old  man  continued  to  sob  and  the  life  of  his  com 
panion  continued  to  ebb  away.  The  brutal  blow 
that  caused  his  death  had  mercifully  numbed  the 
power  of  feeling,  so  that  whatever  the  gloomy  jour 
ney  he  \vas  about  to  take  might  mean  to  him, 
whether  the  same  life  he  was  leaving,  or  a  larger, 
or  none  at  all,  he  would  move  on  through  the  dark 
ness  toward  the  one  or  the  other  at  least  without 
pain. 

"You  and  1  have  fared  in  company  for  many  a 
a  year,"  said  the  old  man  at  last,  "and  bread, 
whether  scant  or  plenty,  and  bed,  whether  hard  or 
soft,  we  have  shared  together.  Thou  hast  made 
the  days  brighter,  and  the  nights  shorter,  by  thy 


The  Old  Beggar's  Dog  93 

presence  as  I  suffered  through  them,  and  dark  will 
the  one  be,  and  long  the  other,  when  I  see  thee  no 
more  ;  would  to  God  I  could  die  with  thee,  my  dog, 
my  dog  ! " 

Did  the  do<»;  indeed  understand  what  he  said  or 

& 

did  he  merely  sense  the  sorrow  in  the  tones  and 
seek  once  more,  as  he  had  done  so  many  times 
before,  to  comfort  his  disconsolate  master?  I 
know  not ;  I  only  know  that  the  poor  animal, 
with  dying  strength,  lifted  his  muzzle  to  his  mas 
ter's  face,  and  twice  he  lapped  it  with  his  tongue. 
Aye,  lapped  the  salt  tears  tenderly  from  his  mas 
ter's  wrinkled  and  pallid  cheeks  with  his  tongue ; 
only  this,  for  no  more  could  he  do.  "My  dog," 
cried  the  old  man  once  more,  amid  his  tears. 
"My  dog,  the  God  who  made  thee  so  loving  and 
worthy  to  be  loved,  and  filled  thee  with  such  sweet 
feeling  and  the  wish  to  comfort  human  woe,  will 
not  surely  let  thee  perish.  In  his  great  universe 
there  is,  there  must  be,  room  for  thee.  I  will  not 
mourn  thee  as  wholly  lost.  I  cannot  do  it.  For 
amid  the  false  thou  hast  been  true,  and  surely 
falsehood  shall  not  live  on  and  sweet  truth  die. 
Tell  me,  my  dog,  give  me  some  sign  that  we  shall 
meet  in  the  great  hereafter?" 

O 

But  in  respose  to  this   appeal  the  dog  gave  no 
motion,  for,  indeed,  his  strength,  like  a  tide  ebbing 


94 


7 he  Old  Beggar s  Dog 


in  the  night,  was  gliding  silently  and  swiftly  out 
ward  in  the  gloom,  gliding  outward  and  beyond  all 
questioning  and  answering,  but  he  opened  wide  his 
glorious  eyes  and  fixed  them  steadily  on  his  mas 
ter's  face  with  such  a  great  love  in  their  depths  that 
mortal  might  not  doubt  that  in  that  love  was  hope 
and  its  sustaining  evidence ;  and  then  the  fatal 
dimness  crept  along  their  edges,  the  pure,  sweet 
light  faded  away  in  their  clear  depths,  and  the  im 
penetrable  shadow  settled  forever  over  the  lustrous 
orbs.  The  lids  at  last  gradually  closed  as  in  sleep, 
and  the  beggar's  clog,  with  his  head  on  his  master's 
neck  and  his  body  resting  on  his  bosom,  lay  dead. 


The  Ball 


The  Ml 


was  evening  —  dark,  cool 
and  starry.  The  earth  and 
water  lay  hidden  in  the 
dusky  gloom.  Above,  the 
stars  were  at  their  bright 
est.  They  gleamed  and 
glowed,  flashed  and  scintillated,  like  jewels  fresh 
from  the  case.  Their  fires  were  many-colored— 
orange,  yellow,  and  red ;  and  here  and  there  a 
great  diamond,  fastened  into  the  zone  of  night, 
sent  out  its  intense,  colorless  brilliancy.  Through 
all  the  air  silence  reigned.  The  winds  had  died 
away,  and  the  waters  had  settled  to  repose.  No 
gurgle  along  the  shore :  no  splash  against  the 
great  logs  that  made  the  wharf;  no  bird  of  night 
calling  to  its  mate.  Outside  all  was  still.  Nature 


98  The  Ball 

had  drawn  the  curtains  around  her  couch,  and, 
screened  from  sight,  lay  in  profound  repose. 

Within,  all  was  light,  and  bustle,  and  gayety. 
From  every  window  lights  streamed  and  Hashed. 
The  large  parlors  were  alive  with  moving  forms. 

O  J-  " 

The  piano,  whose  white  keys  were  swept  by  whiter 
hands,  tinkled  and  rang  in  liveliest  measure.  The 

O 

dance  was  at  its  height ;  and  the  very  floor  seemed 
vibrant  with  the  pressure  of  lively  feet.  The  dan 
cers  advanced,  retired,  wheeled  and  swayed  in 
easy  circles,  swept  up  and  down,  and  across  the 
floor  in  graceful  lines. 

c> 

Amid  the  happy  scene  the  Old  Trapper  stood, 
his  stalwart  frame  erect  as  in  his  prime  ;  while  his 
great,  strong  face  fairly  beamed  in  benediction  upon 
the  dancers.  For  his  nature  had  within  its  depths 
that  fine  capacity  which  enabled  it  to  receive  the 
brightness  of  surrounding  happiness  and  reilect  it 
again. 

It  was  a  study  to  watch  his  face  and  mark  the 
passage  of  changeful  moods ;  surprise,  delight, 
and  broad,  warm-hearted  humor,  as  they  came  to 
and  played  across  the  responsive  features.  The 
man  of  the  woods,  of  the  lonely  shore,  and  of 


The  Ball  99 

silence,  seemed  perfectly  at  home  amid  the  noise 
and  commotion  of  human  merry-making. 

At  last  the  music  died  away.  The  dancers 
checked  their  feet.  The  lady  who  had  been  play 
ing  the  piano  rose  wearily  from  the  instrument  and 
joined  a  group  of  friends.  The  music  was  not 
adequate.  The  notes  were  too  sharp  ;  too  isolate; 
they  did  not  flow  together.  There  was  no  sweep 
and  swing,  nor  suavity  of  connected  progress  in 
the  strains.  The  instrument  could  not  lift  the  dan 
cers  up  and  swing  them  onward  through  the  mazy 
motions. 

"I  tell  ye,  Henry,"  said  the  Old  Trapper,  as  he 
turned  to  Herbert  who  was  standing  by  his  side, 
"the  pianner  isn't  the  thing  to  dance  by,  for  sartin. 
It  tinkles  and  chippers  too  much ;  it  rattles  and 
clicks.  It  don't  git  hold  of  the  feelin's,  Henry  ; — 
it  don't  start  the  blood  in  yer  veins,  nor  set  yer  skin 
tinglin',  nor  make  the  feet  dance  agin  yer  will. 
It's  good  enough  in  its  way,  no  doubt ;  but  it  sar- 
tinly  isn't  the  thing  to  lift  the  young  folks  up  and 
swing  'em  round.  The  fiddle  is  the  thing  ; — yis, 
the  fiddle  is  sartinly  the  thing.  I  would  give  a 
good  deal  if  we  had  a  fiddle  here  to-night,  for  I  see 
the  boys  and  girls  miss  it.  Lord-a-massy  !  how  it 


ioo  The  Ball 

would  set  'em  a-goin'if  we  only  had  a  fiddle  here." 

"John  Norton,"  said  the  Lad,  who  was  sitting 
on  a  chair  hidden  away  behind  the  Trapper, 
"John  Norton,"  and  the  Lad  took  hold  of  the 
sleeve  of  his  jacket  and  pulled  the  Trapper's  head 
down  towards  him,  "  would  you  like  to  hear  a  vio 
lin  to-night?" 

"Like  to  hear  a  fiddle?  Lord  bless  ye,  Lad,  I 
guess  I  would  like  to  hear  a  fiddle.  I  never  seed 
a  time  I  wouldn't  give  the  best  beaver  hide  in  the 
lodge  to  hear  the  squeak  of  the  bow  on  the  strings. 
What's  the  matter  with  ye,  Lad?"  and  he  drew  the 
old  man's  head  still  closer  to  him,  until  his  ear  was 
within  a  few  inches  of  his  mouth.  "I  love  to  play 
the  violin  better  than  I  love  any  thing  in  the  world, 
and  I've  got  one  of  the  best  ones  you  ever  heard, 
out  there  in  the  bow  of  the  boat." 

"Heavens  and  'arth,  Lad!"  ejaculated  the 
Trapper,  "Did  ye  say  ye  could  play  the  fiddle, 
and  that  ye  had  a  good  one  out  there  in  the  boat? 
Lord-a-massy !  how  the  young  folks  will  hop. 
Scoot  out  there  and  git  it,  boy,  and  Henry  and  me 
will  let  the  folks  know  what  ye've  got  and  what  ye 
can  do." 

The  Lad  fairly   flashed  out  of  the  room.     He 


The  Ball  101 

was  gone  in  an  instant ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
had  returned,  bearing  in  his  hands  a  bundle  which 
he  carried  as  carefully  as  a  mother  would  carry 
her  babe  ;  but  brief  as  had  been  his  absence  it  had 
allowed  sufficient  time  for  Herbert  to  communicate 
with  the  master  of  ceremonies  and  for  him  to  an 
nounce  to  the  company  present  that  the  great  lack 
of  the  occasion  had  fortunately  and  unexpectedly 
been  supplied  ;  for  the  young  man  who  was  with 
Mr.  Herbert  and  John  Norton  not  only  knew  how 
to  play  the  violin,  but  actually  had  one  in  his  boat, 
and  had  gone  to  get  it,  and  would  be  back  in  a 
moment.  The  announcement  was  received  with 
applause.  White  hands  clapped,  and  a  hundred 
ejaculations  of  wonderment  sounded  forth  the  sur 
prise  and  pleasure  of  the  eager  throng.  And  when 
the  Lad  came  stealing  in,  bearing  his  precious 
burden,  he  was  received  with  a  positive  ovation. 

It  was  amusing  to  see  the  change  which  had 
come  over  the  looks  and  actions  of  the  company 
at  the  mention  and  appearance  of  the  violin.  The 
faces  that  had  shown  indifference  and  the  look  of 
languid  weariness  freshened  and  became  tense  in 
all  their  lines  ;  and  on  their  heads  again  animation 
sat  crowned.  Those  who  were  seated  jumped  to 


102  The  BaU 

their  feet.  The  conversationalists  broke  their  cir 
cle  and  swung  suddenly  into  line.  Eyes  sparkled. 
Little  happy  screams  and  miniature  war-whoops 
from  the  boisterous  youngsters  rang  through  the 
parlor.  In  eye,  and  look,  and  voice,  the  popular 
tribute  spoke  in  honor  of  the  popular  instrument, — 
an  instrument  whose  strings  can  sound  almost  every 
passion  forth  :  The  quip  and  quirk  of  merriment, 
the  mourner's  wail,  the  measured  praise  of  solemn 
psalms,  the  lively  beat  of  joy,  the  subtle  charm  of 
indolent  moods,  and  the  sweet  ecstacy  of  youthful 
pleasure,  when  with  flying  feet  and  in  the  abandon 
of  delight  she  swings,  circles,  and  floats  through 
the  measures  of  the  voluptuous  waltz. 

In  one  corner  of  the  parlor  there  was  a  platform, 
from  which  charades  and  private  theatricals  had 
been  acted  on  some  previous  evening,  and  to  this 
the  Lad  was  escorted  ;  and  strange  to  say  his  awk 
wardness  had  departed  from  him.  His  form  was 
straight.  His  head  was  lifted.  His  shambling 
gait  steadied  itself  with  firmest  confidence.  His 
long  arms  sought  no  longer  feebly  to  hide  them 
selves,  but  held  the  package  that  he  carried  in  fond 
authority  of  gesture,  as  a  proud  mother,  whose 
pride  had  banished  bashfulness,  might  carry  a 


The  Ball  103 

beautiful  child.  So  the  Lad  went  toward  the  dais, 
and,  seating  himself  in  the  chair,  proceeded  with 
deliberate  tenderness  to  uncover  the  instrument. 

An  old,  dark-looking  one  it  was.  The  gloom  of 
centuries  darkened  it.  Their  dusk  had  penetrated 
the  very  fibre  of  the  wood.  Its  look  suggested 

oo 

ancient  times  ;  far  climes  ;  and  hands  long  mould 
ering  in  dust.  It  was  an  instrument  to  quicken 
curiosity  and  elicit  mental  interrogation.  What 
was  its  story?  Where  was  it  made?  By  whom, 
and  when?  The  Lad  did  not  know.  It  was  his 
mother's  gift,  he  said.  And  an  old  sea-captain  had 
given  it  to  his  mother.  The  old  sea-captain  had 
found  it  on  a  wreck  in  the  far-off  Indian  Ocean. 
He  found  it  in  a  trunk  — a  great  sea  chest  made  ot 
scented  wood  and  banded  with  brazen  ribs.  And 
in  the  chest,  with  it,  it  was  rumored  the  old  mariner 
had  found  silks,  and  costly  fabrics,  and  gold,  and 
eastern  gems, —  gems  that  never  had  been  cut,  but 
lay  in  all  their  barbaric  beauty,  dull  and  swarth  as 
Cleopatra's  face.  Thus  the  violin  had  been  found 
on  the  far  seas  —  at  the  end  of  the  world,  as  it 
were,  and  in  companionship  of  gems  and  fabrics 
rich  and  rare  ;  and  in  a  chest  whose  mouth  breathed 
odors.  This  was  all  the  Lad  knew. 


104 


77/6-  Ball 


"Henry,"  said  the  old  Trapper,  "the  Lad  says 
the  fiddle  is  so  old  that  no  one  knows  how  old  it  is  ; 
and  I  conceit  the  boy  speaks  the  truth.  It  sartinly 
looks  as  old  as  a  squaw  whose  teeth  has  dropped 
out  and  whose  face  is  the  color  of  tanned  buckskin. 
I  tell  ye,  Henry,  I  believe  it  will  bust  if  the  Lad 
draws  the  bow  with  any  'arnestness  across  it,  for 
there  never  was  a  glue  made  that  would  hold  wood 

together    for    a    thousand 

o 

year.  And  if  that  fiddle 
isn't  a  thousand  year  old, 
then  John  Norton  is  no 
jedge  of  appearances, 
and  can't  count  the  prongs 
on  the  horns  of  a  buck." 

At  this  instant  the   Lad 
dropped  the  bo\v  upon  the 
strings.      Strong    and 
round,  mellow  and  sweet, 
"The  Lad  began  to  play."      the    note    swelled    forth. 
Starting  with  the  least  filament  of  sound,   it  wove 

O 

itself  into  a  compact  chord  of  sonorous  resonance  ; 
filled  the  great  parlors  ;  passed  through  the  door 
way  into  the  receptive  stillness  outside  ;  charged 
it  with  throbbings  —  thus  held  the  air  a  moment; 


The  Ball  105 

reigned  in  it  —  then,  calling  its  powers  back  to  itself, 
drew  in  its  vibrating  tones;  cheeked  its  undulatin^ 

o  o 

force  ;  and  leaving  the  air  by  easy  retirement,  came 
back  like  a  bird  to  its  nest  and  died  away  within 
the  recesses  of  the  dark,  melodious  shell  from 
whence  it  started. 

When  the  bow  first  began  its  course  across  the 
strings  the  old  Trapper's  eyes  were  on  it ;  and  as 
the  note  grew  and  swelled  he  seemed  to  grow  with 
it.  His  great  fingers  shut  into  their  palms  as  if  an 
unseen  power  was  pulling  at  the  chords.  His 
breast  heaved.  His  mouth  actually  opened.  It 
was  as  if  the  rising,  swelling,  pulsating  sounds 
actually  lifted  him  from  off  the  floor  on  which  he 
stood,  and  when  the  magnificent  note  ebbed  and 
finally  died  away  within  the  violin,  not  only  he,  but 
all  the  company  stood  breathless  :  charmed,  sur 
prised,  astonished  into  silence  at  the  wondrous  note 
they  had  heard. 

The  old  Trapper  was  the  first  to  move.  He 
brought  his  brawny  hand  down  heavily  upon  Her 
bert's  shoulder,  and,  with  a  face  actually  on  fire  with 
the  fervor  stirred  within  him,  exclaimed  : 

"  Lord-a-massy  !  Henry,  did  ye  ever  hear  a  noise 
like  that  ?  I  say,  boy,  did  ye  ever  hear  a  noise  like 


io6  The  Ball 

that?  Where  on  arth  did  it  all  come  from?  Why, 
boy,  'twas  as  long  and  as  solemn  as  a  funeral,  as 
arnest  as  the  cry  ol  a  panther,  and  roared  like  a 
nest  of  hornets  when  ye  poke  'em  with  a  stick.  If 
that's  a  fiddle,  I  wonder  what  the  other  things  be 
that  I  have  heerd  the  half-breeds  and  the  Frenchers 
play  in  the  clearin's." 

Well  might  the  old  Trapper  be  astonished.  The 
violin  of  unknown  age  and  make  was  one  among 
ten  thousand.  It  was  a  concert  to  hear  the  Lad 
tune  it ;  which  he  did  with  a  bold  and  skilful  touch, 
and  the  exactness  of  an  ear  which  nature  had  made 
exquisitely  true  to  time  and  chord.  His  bashful- 
ness  was  gone.  His  timidity  had  departed.  His 
awkwardness,  even,  went  out  of  body  and  arm  and 
fingers,  with  the  initial  note.  His  soul  had  found 
its  life  with  his  mother's  gift ;  and  he  who  was  so 
weak  and  hesitating  in  ordinary  moments,  found 
courage  and  strength,  and  the  dignity  of  a  master, 
when  he  touched  the  strings.  At  last  the  instru 
ment  was  ready.  And  with  a  flourish  bold  and  free 
he  struck  into  the  measures  of  a  waltz  that  filled 
the  parlor  with  circling  noise,  and  made  the  air 
throb  and  beat  —  swing  and  swell,  as  if  it  were 


"  The  God  of  JMusic  was  actually  in  the  room." 


The  Ball  109 

liquid,    and   unseen    hands    were    moving  it   with 
measured  undulations. 

There  was  no  resisting  an  influence  so  sweet, 
subtle,  and  pervasive,  as  flowed  from  that  easy 
going  bow,  as  it  came  and  went  over  the  resound 
ing  strings.  Couple  after  couple  swung  off  into 
the  open  space,  until  th,e  entire  company  were 
swinging  and  floating  through  the  dreamy  and 
bewitching  measures.  The  god  of  music  was 
actually  in  the  room,  and  his  strong,  passionate 
touch  was  on  the  souls  of  those  who  were  floated 
hither  and  thither  as  if  blown  by  his  invisible 
breath.  The  music  took  possession  of  the  dancers. 
It  banished  the  mortal  heaviness  from  their  frames, 
and  made  them  buoyant,  so  that  their  feet  scarce 
touched  the  floor.  Up  and  down  and  across  from 
side  to  side  and  end  to  end  they  whirled  and  floated. 
They  moved  as  if  a  power  which  took  the  place  of 
wings  "was  in  them.  They  did  not  seem  to  know 
that  they  were  dancing.  They  did  not  dance  ;  they 
floated,  flowing  like  a  current  moved  by  easy 
undulations.  Their  hands  were  clasped.  Their 
faces  nearly  touched.  Their  eyes  were  closed  or 
glowing.  And  still  the  long  bow  came  and  went, 
and  still  the  music  rose  and  sank,  swelled  and 


no  The  Ball 

ebbed,  as  easy  waves  advance,  retreat  and  flood 
again,  breaking  in  white  and  lazy  murmurs  at  twi 
light  on  the  dusky  beach. 

Herbert  stood  still ;  his  eyes  were  lifted,  the  gaze 
in  them  far  away,  and  one  foot  beat  the  measure. 
Beside  him  stood  the  Trapper.  His  arms  were 
crossed ;  his  eyes  were  on  the  bow  that  the  Lad 
was  drawing,  and  his  body  swayed,  lifted  and  sank 
in  perfect  harmony  with  the  motions  and  the 
accompanying  sound,  with  a  grace  which  nature 
only  reaches  when  the  will  is  utterly  surrendered 
to  a  power  that  has  charmed  the  stiffness  and  ten 
sion  out  of  the  frame  and  made  it  yielding  and 
responsive. 

At  last  the  music  stopped ;  and  with  it  stopped 
each  form.  Each  foot  was  arrested  at  the  point  to 
which  the  sound  had  carried  it  when  it  paused. 
Each  couple  stood  in  perfect  pose.  The  motive 
power  which  moved  them  was  withdrawn,  and  the 
limbs  stood  motionless  as  if  the  soul  that  <rave 

O 

them  animation  had  retired.     Thev  had  been  lifted 

•/ 

to  another  world  —  a  world  of  impulse  and  move 
ment  more  airy  and  spirit-like  than  the  gross  earth, 
—  and  it  took  a  moment  for  them  to  struggle  back 
to  ordinary  life.  But  in  a  moment  thought  recalled 


The  Ball  in 

them  to  themselves,  and  they  realized  the  mastery 
of  the  power  that  had  held  them  at  its  will  and  the 
applause  broke  out  in  showers  of  happy  tumult. 
They  crowded  around  the  Lad  —  strong  men  and 
beautiful  women,  —  gazing  at  him  in  wonder;  then 
broke  up  into  knots  talking  and  marvelling.  To 
the  old  Trapper's  face,  as  he  gazed  at  the  Lad,  a 
strange  look  came, — the  look  of  a  man  to  whose 
soul  has  come  a  revelation  so  pure  and  sweet  that 
he  is  unable  at  first  to  compass  it  with  his  under 
standing.  He  came  close  to  the  Lad,  and,  sitting 
down  on  the  edge  of  the  platform,  put  his  hand  on 
the  knee  of  the  youth,  and  said  : 

"I  have  heerd  most  of  the  sweet  and  terrible 
noises  that  natur'  makes,  boy  ;  I  have  heered  the 
thunder  among  the  hills,  when  the  Lord  was 
knockin'  ag'in  the  'arth  until  it  jarred ;  and  I  have 
heered  the  wind  in  the  pines  and  the  waves  on  the 
beaches  when  the  darkness  of  night  was  on  the 
woods,  and  Natur'  was  singin'  her  evenin'  psalm  ; 
and  there  be  no  bird  or  beast  the  Lord  has  made 
whose  cry,  be  it  lively  or  solemn,  I  have  not  heerd  ; 
and  I  have  said  that  man  had  never  made  an 
instrument  that  could  make  so  sweet  a  noise  as 
Natur'  makes  when  the  Spent  of  the  universe 


H2  The  Ball 

speaks  through  her  stillness  :  but  ye  have  made 
sounds  to-night,  Lad,  sweeter  than  my  ears  have 
ever  heerd  on  hill  or  lake-shore,  at  noon  or  in  the 
night  season,  and  I  sartinly  believe  that  the  Sperit 
of  the  Lord  has  been  with  ye,  boy,  and  gi'n  ye 
the  power  to  bring  out  sech  music  as  the  Book 
says  the  angels  make  in  their  happiness  in  the 
world  above.  I  trust  ye  be  grateful,  Lad,  for  the 
gift  the  Lord  has  gi'n  ye  ;  for,  though  yer  tongue 
knows  leetle  of  speech,  yit  yer  fingers  can  bring 
sech  sounds  out  of  that  fiddle  as  a  man  might  wish 
to  have  in  his  ears  when  his  body  lies  stiffenin'  in 
his  cabin,  and  his  spent  is  standin'  on  the  edge  of 
the  Great  Clearin'.  Yis,  Lad,  ye  must  sartinly 
play  for  me  when  my  eyes  grow  dim,  and  my  feet 
strike  the  trail  that  no  man  strikes  but  once,  nor 
travels  both  ways." 

At  this  point  the  announcement  of  supper  was 
made ;  and  the  company  streamed  towards  the 
tables.  The  repast  was  of  that  bounteous  charac 
ter  customary  to  the  houses  located  in  the  woods, 
in  which  the  hearty  provisions  of  the  forest  were 
brought  into  conjunction  with  and  re-enforced  by 
the  more  light  and  fanciful  cuisine  of  the  cities. 
Among  the  substantial,  fish  and  venison  predomi- 


The  Ball  113 

nated.  There  was  venison  roast,  and  venison  spit 
ted,  and  venison  broiled  ;  venison  steak  and  venison 
pie;  trout  broiled,  and  baked,  and  boiled;  pan 
cakes  and  rolls ;  ices-  and  cream  ;  pies  and  pud 
dings  ;  pickles  and  sauces  of  every  conceivable 
character  and  make  ;  ducks  and  partridges  ;  coffee 
and  tea  whose  nature,  I  regret  to  say,  was  dis 
cernible  only  to  the  eye  of  faith.  In  the  midst  of 
this  abundance,  the  Old  Trapper  was  entirely  at 
home.  He  ate  with  the  relish  and  heartiness  of  a 
man  whose  appetite  was  of  the  highest  order,  and 
whose  courage  mounted  to  the  occasion. 

"I  tell  ye,  Henry,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he 
transferred  a  duck  to  his  plate  and  proceeded  to 
carve  it  with  the  aptness  of  one  who  had  practical 
knowledge  of  its  anatomy,  "I  tell  ye,  Henry,  the 
birds  be  gittin'  fat ;  and  I  sartinly  hope  the  flight 
this  fall  will  be  a  good  un.  Don't  be  bashful, 
Lad,  in  yer  eatin',"  he  continued,  as  he  transferred 
half  of  the  bird  to  his  companion's  plate,  "ye 
haven't  got  the  size  of  some  about  the  waist,  but 
yer  length  is  in  yer  favor,  and  if  ye  will  only 
straighten  up,  and  Henry  don't  gin'  out,  there'll 
be  leetle  left  on  this  eend  of  the  table  when  we 
have  satisfied  our  hunger.  I  don't  know  when  the 


«4 


The  Ball 


cravin'  of  natur'  has  been  stronger  within  me  then 
it  is  this  minit ;  and  if  nothin'  happens,  and  ye 
stand  by  me,  the  Saranacers  will  remember  our 


"Even  the  -waiters,  as  they  came  and  tvcnf,  caught  the 
infection." 

visit  for  days  after  we  be  gone.  It  isn't  often  that 
I  feed  in  the  settlements,  or  get  a  taste  of  their 
cookin',  but  the  man  who  basted  these  birds 


The  Ball  115 

knowed  what  he  was  doin',  and  the  fire  has  given 
them  jest  the  right  tech  ;  and  the  morsels  actilly 
melt  in  yer  mouth." 

The  Trapper's  feelings  were  evidently  not  pecul 
iar  to  himself.  And  the  spirit  of  feasting  was 
abroad.  The  eating  was  such  as  would  astonish 
the  dwellers  in  cities.  Wit  flashed  across  the  table 
in  answer  to  wit.  Mirth  rippled  from  end  to  end 
of  the  room.  Laughter  roared  and  rollicked 
adovvn  the  hall.  Jokes  were  cracked.  Fun  ex 
ploded.  Plates  rattled.  Cups  and  glasses  touched 
and  rang.  Even  the  waiters,  as  they  came  and 
went  in  their  happy  service,  caught  the  infection  of 
the  surrounding  happiness,  and  their  laughter  min 
gled  with  that  of  the  guests. 

The  great  pine  branches  and  the  evergreens 
nailed  against  the  corner  posts  and  wreathed  into 
festoons  aloncr  the  walls  shook  and  trembled  in  the 

o 

uproar  as  to  the  passage  of  winds  along  their  native 
hills.  And  the  huge  buck's  heads,  whose  antlers 
were  tied  with  rosettes  and  streaming  ribbons,  lost 
the  staring  look  of  their  great  artificial  eyes  and 
seemed  as  they  gazed  out  through  the  interlacing 
boughs  of  cedar  and  balsam  as  if  life  had  returned 
to  them,  and  they  once  more  were  animate. 


Ii6  The  Ball 

In  about  an  hour  the  company  streamed  back 
into  the  parlor,  with  a  mood  even  livelier  than 
that  which  had  characterized  the  early  hours  of  the 
occasion.  Their  minds  were  in  the  state  of  hi^h- 

o 

est  action,  and  their  bodies  needed  but  the  oppor 
tunity  for  rapid  motion.  Even  the  Lad  had  caught 
the  infection  of  the  surrounding  liveliness,  for  his 
eyes  and  face  glowed  with  the  light  of  quickened 
animation. 

"Have  ye  got  any  jigs  in  that  fiddle,  Lad?" 
said  the  Trapper  ;  "  Can  ye  twist  any  thing  out  of 
yer  instrument  that  will  set  the  feet  travellin'  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  young  folks  here  want  shakin' 
up  a  leetle ;  and  a  leetle  of  the  old-fashioned 
dancin'  will  help  'em  settle  the  vittles.  Can  ye 
liven  up,  Lad,  and  give  'em  a  tune  that  will  set  'em 
whirlin'?" 

The  only  reply  of  the  Lad  was  a  motion  of  the 
bow ;  but  the  motion  was  effective,  for  it  sent  a 
torrent  of  notes  into  the  air,  which  thrilled  through 
the  body  and  tingled  along  the  nerves  like  succes 
sive  electric  shocks.  The  old  Trapper  fairly 
bounded  into  the  air  ;  and  when  he  struck  the  floor 
his  feet  were  flying.  Nor  was  he  alone  ;  the  jig 


The  Ball 

had  started  a  dozen  on  the  instant ;  and  the  floor 
rattled  and  rang  with  the  tap  of  toe  and  heel. 

"Henry,"  said  the  old  Trapper,  "hold  on  to  me 
or  I  shall  sartinly  make  a  fool  of  myself.  The 
Lad  is  ticklin'  me  from  head  to  foot,  and  my  toes 
are  snappin'  inside  of  the  moccasins.  Lord, 
who'd  a  thought  that  the  blood  in  the  veins  of  a 
man  whose  head  is  whitenin'  could  be  sot  leapin' 
as  mine  is  doin'  at  this  minit  by  the  scrapin'  of  a 
fiddle!" 

The  Lad  was  a  picture  to  see.  His  bow  flew 
like  lightning.  His  long  fingers  drummed  and  slid 
along  the  strings  of  the  violin  with  bewildering 
swiftness.  The  little  instrument  jetted  and  effer 
vesced  its  melody.  The  continuous  and  resounding 
noise  poured  out  of  it  in  tuneful  bubbles.  The  air 
was  filled  with  tinkling  fragments  of  sound.  The 
Lad's  body  swayed  to  and  fro.  His  face  glowed. 
His  eyes  flashed.  The  sweat  stood  in  drops  on  his 
forehead,  but  still  the  bow  snapped  and  crinkled, 
and  the  instrument  continued  to  burst  in  musical 
explosions,  while  the  floor  shook,  the  windows 
rattled,  and  the  lamps  flared  and  fluttered,  as  the 
dancers  chased  the  music  on. 

"Heavens  and  arth!"  said  the  Trapper.  "I 
can't  stand  this,"  and  breaking  from  the  hold  that 


nS 


The  Ball 


Herbert  had  on  him,  whirled  himself  out  to  the 
centre  of  the  floor  and,  with  his  face  aflame  with 
excitement  and  his  white  hair  flying  abroad, 
led  the  jig  men  off  with  a  lightness  of  foot  and 
quickness  of  stroke  that  forced  the  music  by  half  a 
beat.  The  effect  was  electric.  The  room  burst 
into  applause,  and  ^  the  Lad  fetched  a' 

stroke  that  seemed        ^^          to     rip     the    violin 


"  The  music  stopped  with  a  snap." 

asunder.  It  was  now  a  race  between  the  violin  and 
the  dancers.  One  after  another  fell  out  of  the  circle 
as  the  moments  passed,  until  the  Trapper  was  left 
alone  and  was  cutting  it  down  in  a  fashion  that  both 


The  Ball  119 

astonished  and  convulsed  the  company.  More  than 
one  of  the  spectators  went  on  to  the  floor  in  parox 
ysms  of  laughter.  Herbert,  bent  over  with  his 
hands  on  his  knees,  was  watching  the  Trapper  with 
mouth  stretched  to  its  utmost  and  streaming  eyes. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  which  would  have  tri 
umphed,  had  not  an  accident  decided  the  contest 
and  brought  the  jig  to  an  abrupt  termination.  For 
even  while  the  Lad  was  in  the  midst  of  the  swiftest 
execution,  the  hind  legs  of  the  chair  in  which  he 
was  sitting  were  whipped  from  their  fastenings,  his 
heels  went  into  the  air,  he  turned  half  a  somersault 
backward  and  the  music  stopped  with  a  snap. 

It  was  minutes  before  a  word  could  be  heard. 
Roars  and  shrieks  and  screams  of  irrepressible  and 
uncontrollable  merriment  shook  the  house  from 
foundation  to  garret.  The  Lad  picked  himself  up 
and  for  the  first  time  since  they  met  Herbert  saw 
his  placid  countenance  wrinkled  and  seamed  with 
the  contortions  of  uproarious  mirth.  The  sluggish 
ness  of  his  temperament  for  once  was  thoroughly 
agitated  and  the  manhood  which  never  before  had 
come  to  the  surface  found  in  hilarity  a  visible  and 
adequate  expression.  The  Trapper  had  spun  to  his 
side  and  the  two  had  joined  their  hands  and,  look- 


I2O  The  Ball 

ing  into  each  other's  faces,  were  laughing  with  a 
boisterousness  that  fairly  shook  their  frames  and 
exploded  in  resounding  peals. 

Gradually  the  uproar  subsided  and  the  company 
settled  by  easy  transition  to  a  quieter  mood.  The 
hours  of  the  night  were  passing  and  the  moment 
drawing  nigh  when  those  who  had  mingled  their 
merriment  must  part.  The  old  Trapper  had  re 
gained  his  gravity  and  his  countenance  had  settled 
to  its  customary  repose.  It  seemed  the  general 
wish  that  the  Lad  would  favor  them  with  a  farewell 
piece,  and  in  compliance  with  the  request  of  many, 
the  old  man  turned  to  him  and  said  : 

"The  hours  be  drawing  on,  Lad,  and  it's  reason 
able  that  we  should  break  up  ;  but  afore  we  go  the 
folks  wish  to  hear  ye  play  a  quiet  sort  of  a  piece 
that  may  be  cheerful  and  pleasant  like  for  them  to 
remember  ye  by  when  we  be  gone.  So,  Lad,  if  ye 
have  got  anything  in  yer  head  that's  soft  and  tech- 
ing,  somethin'  that  will  sort  o*  stay  in  the  heart  as 
the  seasons  come  and  go,  I  sartinly  hope  ye  will 
play  it  for  them.  And  as  ye  say  ye  was  born  by 
the  sea,  and  as  ye  say  the  instrument  ye  hold  in  yer 
hand  wras  gin  ye  by  yer  mother,  it  may  be  ye  can 
play  us  something  out  of  yer  memory  that  shall  tell 


The  Ball  121 

us  of  her  goodness  to  ye.  Something  I  mean,  that 
shall  tell  us  of  the  shore  where  ye  was  born  and  the 
love  that  ye  had  afore  ye  laid  her  to  rest  and  came 
to  the  woods  seekin'  me.  Can  ye  play  us  somethin' 
like  that,  Lad?" 

"I  can  play  you  anything  that  has  mother  in  it," 
said  he,  and  a  wistful,  yearning,  hungry  look  came 
into  his  eyes  and  the  edges  of  his  lips  quivered. 

The  company  seated  themselves  and  the  boy 
drew  his  bow  across  the  instrument.  The  brush  of 
a  painter  could  not  have  made  the  picture  more 
perfect  than  the  vision  the  Lad  brought  forth  as  the 
bow  played  on  the  strings.  The  picture  of  a  sea, 
sunlighted  and  level,  stretching  far  out;  the  picture 
of  a  curved  shore  :  the  shore  of  a  quiet  bay, 
rimmed  with  its  beach  of  shining  sand  and  noisy 
with  the  gurgle  and  splash  of  lapsing  waves  ;  the 
picture  of  a  home  quiet  and  orderly  and  filled  with 
the  tenderness  of  a  gentle  spirit ;  and  then  a  heavier 
chord  told  of  the  coming  of  a  darker  hour  when  the 
mother  lay  dying.  The  violin  fairly  sobbed  and 
groaned  and  wailed,  as  if  the  spirit  of  unconsol- 
able  grief  were  tugging  heavily  at  the  strings. 
Anon,  a  bell  tolled  solemnly  out  of  it  and  its  heavy 
knell  clanged  through  the  room.  And  then  the 


122  The  Ball 

music  rested  for  a  minute ;  and  in  the  silence  it 
seemed  as  if  the  grave  came  into  sight  as  plainly 
as  if  the  eyes  of  all  were  actually  looking  at  its 
open  mouth.  Again  the  music  sounded,  and  the 
sods,  one  after  another,  fell  on  the  coflln,  dull  and 
heavy,  changing  to  a  gravelly,  smothered  sound  as 
the  grave  filled.  Once  more  it  paused,  and  then  a 
clear,  sweet  strain  arose,  sad,  but  pure  and  fine 
and  hopeful,  as  voice  of  angels  could -have  sung  it, 
trustful  and  resigned.  The  bow  stopped  again  ;  for 
a  moment  the  violin  was  silent.  And  then  the  Lad 
lifted  his  face  and,  laying  the  bow  softly  upon  the 
strings,  began  to  play  what  all  instinctively  felt 
was  a  hymn  to  the  spirit  of  his  mother.  Slowly, 
softly,  sweetly,  as  the  strains  which  the  dying  some 
times  hear,  the  pure,  clear,  smooth  notes  stole  out 
into  the  hushed  air.  It  was  playing,  not  such  as 
mortal  plays  to  mortal,  but  such  as  spirit  plays  to 
spirit  and  soul  to  soul,  to-night,  across  the  street  of 
heaven.  The  Lad  still  used  an  earthly  instrument 
and  touched  its  strings  with  mortal  fingers ;  but 
never,  while  they  live,  will  those  who  heard  that 
hymn  believe  that  anything  less  than  the  spirit  of 


The  Ball  123 

the  boy  drew  from  the  instrument  the  notes  that 
filled  the  room  with  their  divine  sweetness.  In 
deed,  the  Lad  did  not  act  as  if  he  were  conscious 
of  his  body  or  of  bodily  presences  around  him. 
His  face  was  lifted  and  his  eyes,  from  which  the 
tears  were  streaming,  were  gazing  upward,  not  as 
if  into  vacancy,  but  as  if  they  saw  the  bright  being 
that  had  passed  within  the  veil,  standing  in  all  the 
beauty  of  her  transfiguration  before  them.  For  a 
smile  was  on  the  boy's  lips,  even  while  the  tears 
were  rolling  down  his  cheeks.  And  when,  at  last, 
the  arm  suspended  its  motion ;  when  the  sweet 
notes  ceased  to  sound  and  the  last  chord  had  died 
away,  the  Lad  still  kept  his  uplifted  posture  and 
his  features  held  the  same  rapt  expression. 

The  company  sat  motionless,  their  gaze  fastened 
on  the  Lad.  Not  an  eye  was  without  its  tear. 
The  cheeks  of  the  old  Trapper  were  wet ;  and 
Herbert,  touched  by  some  memory  or  overcome 
by  the  pathos  of  the  music,  was  actually  sobbing. 
The  old  man,  with  a  tread  as  light  as  a  moccasined 
foot  could  make,  stepped  softly  to  the  side  of  the 
Lad  and  taking  him  by  the  arm — while  the  com- 


I24 


The  Ball 


pany  rose  as  one  man  —  motioned  to  Henry  with 
his  hand,  and  then,  without  a  word,  the  Trapper 
and  Herbert  and  "The  Man  Who  Didn't  Know 
Much"  passed  out  of  the  room,  and  taking  boat, 
shoved  off  and  glided  from  sight  in  the  blue  dark 
ness  of  the  overhanging  night,  amid  whose  eastern 
gloom  the  great,  luminous,  mellow-hearted  stars 
of  the  morning  were  already  aflame. 


Who  Was  He 


Who  Was  He 


the  head  of 
a  stretch  of 
swiftly  run 
ning  water 

o 

the  river 
widened  in 
to  a  broad 

and  deep  pool.  From  the  western  bank  a  huge 
ledge  of  rock  sloped  downward  and  outward  into 
the  water.  On  it  stood  the  trapper,  John  Norton, 
with  a  look  of  both  expectation  and  anxiety  on  his 
face.  For  a  moment  he  lifted  his  troubled  eyes 
and  gazed  steadily  through  the  tree-tops ;  and  as 
his  eyes  fell  to  the  level  of  the  river,  while  the  look 
of  anxiety  deepened  on  his  countenance,  he  said: 

"Yis,  the  wind  has  changed  and  the  fire  be  corn- 
in'  this  way  ;  and  ef  it  gits  into  the  balsam  thickets 
this  side  of  the  mountain  and  the  wind  holds  \vhere 


128  mo  Was  He 

it  is,  a  buck  in  full  jump  could  hardly  outrun  it. 
Yis,  the  smoke  thickens  ;  ef  I  didn't  know  that  the 
boy  would  act  with  jedgment,  and  that  he's  on- 
usually  sarcumspect,  I  would  sartinly  feel  worried 
about  him.  I  hope  he  won't  do  anything  resky  for 
the  sake  of  the  pups.  Ef  he  can't  git  'em,  he  can't ; 
and  I  trust  he  won't  resk  the  life  of  a  man  for  a 
couple  of  dogs." 

With  these  words  the  trapper  relapsed  into  silence. 
But  every  minute  added  to  his  anxiety,  for  the 
smoke  thickened  in  the  air  and  even  a  few  cinders 
began  to  pass  him  as  they  were  blown  onward 
with  the  smoke  by  the  wind. 

"The  fire  is  comin'  down  the  river,"  he  said, 
"and  the  boy  has  it  behind  him.  Lord-a-mas- 
sy  !  hear  it  roar  !  I  know  the  boy  is  comin',  for  I 
never  knowed  him  to  do  a  foolish  thing  in  the 
woods ;  and  it  would  be  downright  madness  for 
him  to  stay  in  the  shanty,  or  even  go  to  the  shanty, 
ef  the  fire  had  struck  the  balsam  thicket  afore  he 
made  the  landin'.  Lord,  ef  an  oar-blade  should 
break, — but  it  won't  break.  The  Lord  of  marcy 
won't  let  an  oar  that  the  boy  is  handlin'  break, 
when  the  fire  is  racin'  behind  him,  and  he's  comin' 


Who  Was  He  129 

back  from  an  arrand  of  marcy.  I  never  seed  a 
man  desarted  in  a  time  like"  — 

A  report  of  a  rifle  rang  out  quick  and  sharp 
through  the  smoke. 

"God  be  praised!"  said  the  trapper,  "it's  the 
boy's  own  piece,  and  he  let  it  ofF  as  he  shot  the  rift 
the  fourth  bend  above.  Yis,  the  boy  knows  his 
danger  and  he  took  the  vantage  of  the  rift  to  signal 
me  with  his  piece,  for  oars  couldn't  help  him  in  the 
rift  and  the  missin'  of  a  single  stroke  wouldn't 
count.  I  trust  the  boy  got  the  pups,  arter  all,"  add 
ed  the  old  trapper,  his  mind  instantly  reverting  to 
his  loved  companions  the  moment  it  was  relieved 
from  anxiety  touching  his  comrade. 

It  couldn't  have  been  over  five  minutes  after  the 
report  of  a  rifle  had  sounded,  before  a  boat  swept 
suddenly  around  the  bend  above  the  rock  and  shot 
like  an  arrow  through  the  haze  toward  the  trapper. 
Herbert  was  at  the  oars  and  the  two  hcunds  were 
sitting  on  their  haunches  at  the  stern.  •The  stroke 
the  oarsman  was  pulling  was  such  as  a  man  pulls 
when,  in  answer  to  some  emergency,  he  is  putting 
forth  his  whole  strength.  But  though  the  stroke 
was  an  earnest  one,  there  was  no  apparent  hurry 
in  it ;  for  it  was  long  and  evenly  pulled,  from  dip 


130  Who  Was  He 

to  finish,  and  the  recovery  seemed  a  trifle  leisurely 
done.  The  face  of  the  trapper  fairly  shone  with 
delight  as  he  saw  the  boat  and  the  occupants.  In 
deed,  his  happiness  was  too  great  to  be  enjoyed 
silently,  and,  in  accordance  with  his  habit  when 
greatly  interested,  he  broke  into  speech. 

"Look  at  that  now  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  if  speak 
ing  to  some  one  at  his  side;  "look  at  that  now! 
There's  a  stroke  that's  worth  notin',  and  is  a  kind 
of  edication  in  itself.  Ye  might  almost  think  that 
there  wasn't  quite  enough  snap  in  it ;  but  the  boy 
knows  that  he's  pullin'  for  his  life  and  the  life  of 
another  man  somewhere  below  him  —  not  to  speak 
of  the  pups  —  and  he  knows  it's  good  seven  miles 
to  the  rapids,  and  he's  pullin'  every  ounce  that's  in 
him  to  pull,  and  keep  his  stroke.  Now,  he's  come 
five  miles,  ef  he's  come  a  rod,  and  I  warrant  he 
hasn't  missed  a  stroke,  save  when  in  shootin'  the 
rift  he  let  oiT  his  piece.  And  he  knows  lie's  got 
seven  milesftmore  to  pull  and  he's  set  himself  a 
twelve-mile  stroke  ;  and  there  aint  many  men  that 
could  do  it,  with  the  roar  of  the  fire  a  leetle  way 
behind  him.  Yis,  the  boy  has  acted  with  jedgment 
and  is  sartinly  comin'  along  like  a  buck  in  full 
jump.  I  guess  I'd  better  let  him  know  where  I  be." 


Who  Was  He  131 

"Hillow  there,  boy  !  Hi,  hi,  pups  !  Here  I  be 
on  the  p'int  of  the  rock,  as  fresh  as  a  buck  arter  a 
mornin'  drink.  Ease  away  a  leetle,  Herbert,  in 
yer  stroke  and  move  the  pups  forad  a  leetle  and 
make  room  for  a  man  and  a  paddle,  for  the  fire  is 
arter  ye  and  the  time  has  come  to  jine  works." 

The  young  man  did  as  the  trapper  requested. 
He  intermitted  a  stroke  and  the  hounds,  at  a  word, 
moved  into  the  middle  of  the  boat  and  crouched 
obediently  in  the  bottom,  but  whimpering  in  their 
gladness  at  hearing  their  master's  voice  again. 
The  boat  \vas  under  good  headway  when  it  passed 
the  point  of  the  ledge  on  \vhich  the  trapper  was 
standing,  but  as  it  glanced  by,  the  old  man  leaped 
with  practised  agility  to  his  place  in  the  stern  and 
had  given  a  full  and  strong  stroke  to  his  paddle  be 
fore  he  had  fairly  settled  to  his  seat. 

"Now,  Herbert,"  he  began,  "ease  yerself  a  bit, 
for  ye  have  had  a  tough  pull  and  it's  good  seven 
miles  to  the  rapids.  The  fire  is  sartinly  comin'  in 
arnest,  but  the  river  runs  nigh  onto  straight  till  ye 
git  within  sight  of 'em,  and  I  think  we  will  beat  it. 
I  didn't  feel  sartin  that  ye  had  got  the  pups,  Her 
bert,  for  I  could  see  by  the  signs  that  ye  wouldn't 


132  Who   Was  He 

have  any  time  to  spare.     Was  it  a  tech  and  a  go, 
boy?" 

"The  fire  was  in  the  pines  west  of  the  shanty 
when  I  entered  it,"  answered  the  young  man, 
"and  the  smoke  was  so  thick  that  I  couldn't  see  it 
from  the  river  as  I  landed." 

"I  conceited  as  much,"  replied  the  trapper,  "I 
conceited  as  much.  Yis,  I  knowed  'twould  be  a 
close  shave  ef  ye  got  'em,  and  I  feared  ye  would 
run  a  resk  that  ye  oughtn't  to  run,  in  yer  love  for 
the  dogs." 

"I  didn't  propose  to  leave  the  dogs  to  die,"  res 
ponded  the  young  man;  "I  think  I  should  have 
heard  their  cries  in  my  ears  for  a  year,  had  they 
been  burned  to  death  in  the  shanty  where  we  left 
them." 

"Ye  speak  with  right  feelin',  Herbert,"  replied 
the  trapper.  "No,  a  hunter  has  no  right  to  desart 
his  dog  when  danger  be  nigh  ;  for  the  Creator  has 
made  'em  in  their  loves  and  their  dangers,  alike. 
Did  ye  save  the  powder  and  the  bullits,  boy?" 

"I  did  not,"  responded  Herbert;  "the  sparks 
were  all  around  me  and  the  shanty  was  smoking 
while  I  was  feeling  around  for  the  dogs'  leash.  I 


Who  Was  He  133 

heard  the  canister  explode  before  I  reached  the  first 
bend." 

"  'T\vas  a  narrer  rub,  boy,"  rejoined  the  trap 
per.  "Yis,  I  can  see  'twas  a  narrer  rub  ye  had  of 
it,  and  the  holes  in  yer  shirt  show  that  the  sparks 
was  fallin'  pritty  thick  and  pritty  hot,  too,  when  ye 
come  out  of  the  shanty.  How  does  the  stroke  tell 
on  ye,  boy?"  continued  the  old  man,  interrogative 
ly.  "Ye  be  pullin'  a  slashin'  stroke,  ye  see,  and 
there's  five  mile  more  of  it,  ef  there's  a  rod." 

"The  stroke  begins  to  tell  on  my  left  side,"  ans 
wered  Herbert ;  "but  if  you  were  sitting  where  you 
could  see  what's  coming  down  upon  us  as  I  can, 
you  would  see  it  wasn't  any  time  for  us  to  take 
things  leisurely." 

"Lord,  boy,"  rejoined  the  trapper,  "do  ye  think 
I  haven't  any  ears?  The  fire  's  at  the  fourth  bend 
above  us  and  the  pines  on  the  ridge  we  passed  five 
minutes  ago  ought  to  be  blazin'  by  this  time.  Ah 
me,  boy,  this  isn't  the  fust  time  I've  run  a  race  with 
a  fire  of  the  devil's  own  kindlin',  alone  and  in  com 
pany,  both.  And  my  ears  have  measured  the  roar 
and  the  cracklin'  ontil  I  can  tell  to  a  rod,  eenamost, 
how  fur  the  red  line  be  behind  me." 

"What    do  you  think  of  our  chances?"   queried 


134  Wlio  Was  He 

his  companion ;  "shall  we  get  over  the  carry  in 
time?  for  I  suppose  we  are  making  for  the  big  pool, 
are  we  not?" 

"Yis,  we  be  makin'  for  the  pool,"  replied  the 
trapper,  "for  it's  the  only  safe  spot  on  the  river; 
and  as  for  the  chances,  I  sartinly  doubt  ef  we  can 
fetch  the  carry  in  time.  Ef  the  fire  isn't  there 
ahead  of  us,  it  will  be  on  us  afore  we  could  git  to 
the  pool  at  the  other  eencl." 

"Why  can't  we  run  the  rapids?"  asked  Herbert 
promptly. 

"The  rapids  can  be  run,  as  you  and  me  know," 
responded  the  old  man,  "  for  we  have  both  did  it, 
although  they  be  onusually  swift,  and  there  be 
spots  where  good  jedgment  and  a  quick  paddle  is 
needed." 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Herbert,  "the  last  time  we 
went  down  we  never  took  in  a  drop  of  water." 

"It's  true,  as  ye  say,  boy,"  responded  the  trap 
per;  "yis,  we  sartinly  did  as  ye  say,  though  feu- 
be  the  men  that  know  the  waters  that  would  believe 
it." 

"Why,  then,"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  "can't 
we  do  it  again?" 

"The  smoke,  boy,  the  smoke,"  was  the  answer. 


Who  Was  He  135 

"The  smoke  will  be  there  ahead  of  us.  And  who 
can  run  a  stretch  of  water  like  the  one  ahead 
yender,  with  his  eyes  blinded?  No,  boy,  we  must 
git  there  ahead  of  the  fire,  for  we  can't  run  the 
rapids  in  the  smoke.  Here,"  he  added,  "ye  be 
pullin'  a  murderin'  stroke,  and  it's  best  that  I  spell 
ye.  Down  with  ye,  pups,  down  with  ye,  and  lie 
still  as  a  frozen  otter  while  the  boy  comes  over  ye." 

With  the  celerity  of  long  practice  in  boating,  the 
two  men  changed  places,  and  with  such  quickness 
was  the  change  in  position  effected,  that  the  on- 
rushing  shell  scarcely  lessened  its  headway.  The 
trapper  seized  the  oars  on  the  instant,  while  Herbert 
supported  him  with  equal  swiftness  with  the  pad 
dle  and  the  light  craft  raced  along  like  a  feather 
blown  by  the  gale. 

For  several  moments  the  trapper,  who,  by  the 
change  in  his  position  was  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  pursuing  fire,  said  not  a  word.  •  His  stroke  was 
long  and  sweeping  and  pulled  with  an  energy 
which  only  perfect  skill  and  tremendous  strength 
can  put  into  action.  He  looked  at  the  rolling 
flames  with  a  face  undisturbed  in  its  calmness  and 
with  eyes  that  noted  knowingly  every  sign  of  its 
progress. 


136  Who  Was  lie 

"The  fire  is  a  hot  un,"  he  said  at  length,  "and 
it  runs  three  feet  to  our  two.  We  may  git  there 
ahead  of  it,  for  there  isn't  more  than  a  mile  furder 
to  go;  but — Lord  !"  exclaimed  the  trapper,  "how 
it  roars  !  and  it  makes  its  own  wind  as  it  comes  on. 
Don't  break  yer  paddle  shaft,  boy  ;  but  the  shaft  is 
a  good  un  and  ye  may  put  all  the  strength  into  it 
that  ye  think  it  will  stand." 

The  spectacle  on  which  the  trapper  was  gazing 
was,  indeed,  a  terrible  one  ;  and  the  peril  of  the 
two  men  was  getting  to  be  extreme.  The  valley, 
through  the  centre  of  which  the  river  ran,  was  per 
haps  a  mile  in  width,  at  which  distance  a  range  of 
lofty  hills  on  either  side  walled  it  in.  Down  this 
enclosed  stretch  the  fire  was  being  driven  by  a  wind 
which  sent  the  blazing  evidences  of  its  approach 
in  advance  of  its  terrible  progress.  The  spectacle 
was  indescribable.  The  dreadful  line  of  flame 
moved  onward  like  a  line  of  battle,  when  it  moves 
at  a  charge  against  a  flying  enemy.  The  hungry 
flames  ate  up  the  woods  as  a  monster  might  eat 
food  when  starving.  Grasses,  shrubs,  bushes, 
thickets  of  undergrowth  and  the  great  trees,  which 
stood  in  groves  over  the  level  plain  on  either  side 
of  the  stream,  disappeared  at  its  touch  as  if  swal- 


Who   Was  He  137 

lowed  up.  The  evergreens  crackled  and  flamed 
fiery  hot.  The  smoke  eddied  up  in  rushing  vol 
umes.  Overhead,  and  far  in  advance  of  the  on- 
rolling  line  of  lire,  the  air  was  darkened  with  black 
cinders,  amid  whose  sombre  masses  fiery  sparks 
and  blazing  brands  shone  and  flashed  like  falling 
stars. 


,  -^&m^-m  iW*Mi*J 


"A  deer  suddenly  sprang  from  the  bank." 

A  deer  suddenly  sprang  from  the  bank  into  the 
river  ahead  of  the  boat  and,  frenzied  with  fear, 
swam  boldly  athwart  its  course.  lie  was  followed 
by  another  and  another.  Birds  flew  shrieking 
through  the  air.  Even  the  river  animals  swam 
uneasily  along  the  banks,  or  peered  out  of  their 


138  Who  Was  He 

holes,  as  if  nature  had  communicated  to  them, 
also,  the  terrible  alarm  ;  while,  like  the  roar  of  a 
cataract,  —  dull,  heavy,  portentous,  —  the  wrath  of 
the  flames  rolled  ominously  through  the  air. 

Amid  the  sickening  smoke  which  was  already 
rolling  in  volumes  over  the  boat  and  the  terrible 
uproar  and  confusion  of  nature,  Herbert  and  the 
trapper  kept  steadily  to  their  task.  But  every 
moment  the  line  of  fire  gained  on  them.  The 
smoke  was  already  at  intervals  stilling  and  the 
heat  of  the  coming  conflagration  getting  unbear 
able.  Brands  began  to  fall  hissing  into  the  water. 
Twice  had  Herbert  flung  a  blazing  fragment  out 
of  the  boat.  And  so,  in  a  race  literally  for  life, 
with  the  flames  chasing  them  and  their  lives  in 
jeopardy,  they  turned  the  last  bend  above  the  carry 
which  began  at  the  head  of  the  rapids.  But  it  was 
too  late  ;  the  fiery  fragments  blown  ahead  by  the 
high  wind  had  fallen  in  front  of  them,  and  the 
landing  at  the  carry  itself  was  actually  enveloped 
in  smoke  and  flame. 

"The  fire  be  ahead  of  us,  boy  !"  exclaimed  the 
trapper,  "and  death  is  sartinly  comin'  behind. 
The  odds  be  agin  us  to  start  with,  for  the  smoke  is 
thick  and  the  fire  will  be  in  the  bends  at  least  half 


Wlio  Was  He  139 

the  way  clown,  but  it's  our  only  chance ;  we  must 
run  the  rapids." 

"What  about  the  dogs?" 

"The  pups  must  shirk  for  themselves,"  ans 
wered  the  old  man.  "I'm  sorry,  but  the  rapids  be 
swift  and  the  waters  shaller  on  the  first  half  of  the 
stretch.  And  the  pups  settle  the  boat  half  an  inch, 
ef  they  settle  it  a  hair.  Yis,  overboard  with  ye, 
pups!  overboard  with  ye  !"  commanded  the  trap 
per.  "Ye  must  use  the  gifts  the  Lord  has  gin  ye 
now,  or  git  singed.  I  advise  ye  to  keep  with  the 
current  and  come  down  trailin'  the  boat ;  for  man's 
reason  is  better  than  dogs'  reason,  techin'  currents 
and  eddies,  not  to  speak  of  falls.  But  take  yer 
own  way  ;  for  yer  lives  be  in  jeopardy  with  yer 
master's,  and  ye  ought,  for  sartin,  to  have  the 
chance  of  dyin'  as  ye  like  to.  But  yer  best  chance 
is  to  foller  the  boat,  as  I  jedge." 

The  trapper  had  continued  to  talk  as  if  address 
ing  members  of  the  human  and  not  the  canine 
species ;  and  long  before  he  had  finished  his 
remarks,  the  hounds  had  taken  to  the  water  and 
were  swimming  with  all  their  power  directly  in  the 
wake  of  the  boat,  as  if  they  had  actually  under 
stood  their  master's  injunction,  and  were,  indeed, 


I40  Who   Was  lie 

determined  to  shoot  the  rapids  in  his  wake. 

The  conflagration  was  now  at  its  fiercest  heat. 
The  smoke  whirled  upward  in  mighty  eddies  or 
rolled  along  in  huge  convolutions.  Through  the 
fleecy  rolls  here  and  there  tongues  of  flame  shot 
fiercely.  The  river  steamed.  The  roar  of  the 
rushing  flames  was  deafening.  The  tops  of  the 
huge  pines  that  stood  along  the  banks  would  wave 
and  toss  as  the  fiery  line  reached  them,  and  then 
burst  into  blaze,  as  if  they  were  but  the  mighty 
torches  that  lighted  the  path  of  the  passing  destruc 
tion.  In  all  his  long  and  eventful  life,  passed  amid 
peril,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  trapper  had  ever  been  in 
a  wilder  scene.  The  rapids  were  ahead  and  the 
fire  behind  and  on  either  side.  The  great  mass  of 
flame  had  not  yet  rolled  abreast  the  boat,  but  the 
blazing  brands  were  already  falling  in  advance. 
It  was  not  a  moment  to  hesitate  ;  nor  was  he  a  man 
to  falter  when  action  was  called  for. 

By  this  time  the  boat  had  come  nigh  the  upper 
rift  of  the  rapids,  and  the  motion  of  the  downward 
suction  was  beginning  to  tell  on  its  progress.  The 
trapper  shipped  his  oars  and,  lifting  his  paddle, 
placed  himself  in  a  kneeling  posture,  gazing  down 
stream.  The  fire  was  almost  upon  them,  and  the 


smoke  too  dense  for  sight.  But  pressing  as  was 
the  emergency,  neither  man  touched  his  paddle  to 
the  water,  but  let  the  boat  go  down  with  the  quick 
ening  current  to  the  verge  of  the  rapids,  where  the 
sharp  dip  of  the  decline  would  send  it  flying. 

"This  be  an  onsartin  ventur',  Henry,"  cried  the 
trapper,  shouting  to  his  comrade  from  the  smoke 
that  now  made  it  impossible  for  the  young  man, 
even  at  only  the  boat's  length,  to  see  his  person. 
"This  be  an  onsartin  ventur',  and  the  Lord  only 
knows  how  it  will  eend.  Ye  know  the  waters  as 
well  as  I  do  ;  and  ye  know  the  p'ints  where  things 
must  be  did  right.  We'll  beat  the  smoke  arter  we 
make  the  fust  dip  and  git  out  of  the  thickest  of  it 
in  the  fust  half  of  the  distance,  onless  somethin' 
happens.  Let  her  go  with  the  current,  boy,  ontil 
yer  sight  comes  to  ye,  for  the  current  knows  where 
it's  goin',  and  that's  more  than  a  mortal  Cc-n  tell  in 
this  infarnal  smoke.  Here  we  go,  boy!"  shouted 
the  old  man,  as  the  boat  balanced  in  its  perilous 
flight  on  the  sharp  edge  of  the  uppermost  rift. 
"Here  we  go,  boy  !"  he  shouted  out  of  the  smoke 
and  the  rush  of  waters,  "  it's  hotter  than  Tophet 
where  we  be  and  it  matters  mighty  leetle  what 
meets  us  below." 


142  Who  Was  He 


II 

To  those  who  have  had  no  experience  in  run 
ning  rapids,  no  adequate  conception  can  be  given 
touching  what  can  with  truth  be  called  one  of  the 
most  exciting  experiences  that  man  can  pass 
through.  The  very  velocity  with  which  the  flight 
is  made  is  enough  of  itself  to  make  the  sensation 
startling.  The  skill  which  is  required  on  the  part 
of  the  boatman  is  of  the  finest  order.  Eye  and 
hand  and  readiest  wit  must  work  in  swift  connec 
tion.  Some  who  read  these  lines  perhaps  have- 
shall  we  say  —  enjoyed  the  sensation  which  we 
have  always  found  impossible  to  describe  in  words? 
These,  at  least,  will  appreciate  the  difficulty  of  our 
task,  and  also  the  peril  which  surrounded  the  trap 
per  and  his  companion. 

The  first  flight  down  which  the  boat  glanced  was 
a  long  one.  The  river  bed  sloped  away  in  a 
straight  direction  for  nigh  on  to  fifty  rods,  and  at  an 
angle  so  steep  that  the  water,  although  the  bottom 
was  rough,  fairly  flattened  itself  as  it  ran  ;  and  the 


Who  Was  He  143 

channel  where  the  current  was  the  deepest  gave 
forth  a  serpentine  sound  as  it  whizzed  downward. 
The  smoke,  which  hung  heavily  over  the  stretch 
from  shore  to  shore,  was  too  dense  for  the  eye  to 
penetrate  a  yard.  Amid  the  smoke  sparks  floated, 
and  brands,  crackling  as  they  fell,  plunged  through 
it  into  the  steaming  \vater.  Guidance  of  the  frail 
craft  \vas,  as  the  trapper  had  predicted,  out  of  the 
question  ;  the  two  men  could  only  keep  their  posi 
tion  as  they  went  streaming  downward.  They 
kept  their  seats  like  statues,  knowing  well  that 
their  safety  lay  in  allowing  their  light  shell  to  fol 
low,  without  the  least  interruption,  the  pressure  of 
the  swift  current. 

Half  down  the  flight  the  volume  of  smoke 
was  parted,  by  some  freak  of  the  wind,  from 
shore  to  shore,  and  for  a  couple  of  rods  they 
saw  the  water,  the  blazing  banks,  the  fiery  tree- 
tops  and  each  other.  The  trapper  turned  his 
face,  blackened  and  stained  by  the  grimy  cin 
ders,  toward  his  companion  and  gave  one  glance, 
in  which  humor  and  excitement  were  equally 
mingled.  His  mouth  was  open,  but  the  words 
were  lost  in  the  roar  of  the  flame  and  the  rush 
of  the  water.  He  had  barely  time  to  toss  a  hand 


144  Who   Was  He 

upward,  as  if  by  gesture  he  would  make  good 
the  impossibility  of  speech,  before  face  and  hand 
alike  faded  from  Herbert's  eyes  as  the  boat  plung 
ed  again  into  the  smoke. 

The  next  instant  the  boat  launched  down  the 
final  pitch  of  the  declivity  and  shot  far  out  into 
the  smooth  water  that  eddied  in  a  huge  circle  in  the 
pool  below.  The  smoke  was  at  this  point  less 
compact,  for  through  it  the  blazing  pines  on  either 
flamed  partially  into  view. 

"It's  the  devil's  own  work,  boy,  for  sartin," 
cried  the  trapper,  "and  the  fool  or  the  knave  that 
started  the  fire  oughter  be  toasted.  I  trust  the  pups 
will  be  reasonable  and  come  down  with  the  cur 
rent.  Has  the  fire  touched  ye  anywhere?" 

"Not  much,"  answered  Herbert.  "A  brand 
struck  me  on  the  shoulder  and  opened  a  hole  in 
my  shirt,  —  that's  all.  How  do  you  feel?" 

"Fried,  boy  ;  yis,  actally  fried.  Ef  this  infarnal 
heat  lasts,  I'll  be  ready  to  turn  afore  we  reach  the 
second  bend." 

"How  goes  the  stream  below?"   asked  Herbert. 

"All  clear  for  a  while,"  answered  the  trapper, 
"all  clear  for  a  while.  Put  yer  strength  into  the 
paddle  till  we  come  to  the  varge  below,  for  the 


Was  He 


145 


fire  be  ruoiin'  fast,  and  it's  agin  reason  for  a  mor 
tal  to  stand  this  heat  long." 

"Shall  we   run   out  of  the    smoke   at  the   next 
fliirht?"  asked  Herbert. 

& 

"I  think  so,  boy;    I  think   so,"    answered  the 

trapper.     "The  maples  grow  to  the  bank   at  the 

j_  foot  of  the  next   dip,  and  it 

_H9Erf 

isn't  in  the  natur'  of  hard 
wood  to  make  smoke 
like  a  balsam." 

He  would 
have     said 


more,  but 
his     com 
panion   had   nod 
ded  to  him  as  he  had  end 
ed  the  sentence,  for  they 
had     come     to     the     last 


Past    mossy     banks     where 


n-     ,   .        ,-    A\  •  i  i  frrcat  eddies   -whirled." 

flight  of  the    rapids,  and 

the  great  pool  lay  glimmering  through  the  branches 

of  the  trees  below. 


146  WJio  Was  He 

The  old  man  knew  what  was  meant  and  said : 
"I  know  it,  boy,  I  know  it.  Take  the  east  run, 
for  the  water  be  deeper  that  way,  and  the  boat  sets 
deep.  I  won't  trouble  ye,  for  ye  know  the  way. 
Lord  !  how  the  water  biles  !  Now's  yer  time,  boy, 
—  to  the  right  with  ye  !  to  the  right!  Sweep  her 
round  and  let  her  go  ! " 

Away  and  downward  swept  the  boat.  The 
strong  eddies  caught  it,  but  the  controlling  paddle 
was  stronger  than  the  eddies  and  kept  it  to  the 
line  of  its  safest  descent.  Past  rocks  that  stood  in 
mid  current,  against  which  the  swift-going  water 
beat  and  dashed  —  past  mossy  banks  and  shadowed 
curves  where  the  great  eddies  whirled  —  down  over 
miniature  falls  into  bubbles  and  froth  the  light  craft 
swept,  and  with  a  final  plunge  and  leap  jumped 
the  last  cascade,  and,  darting  out  into  the  great 
basin,  ran  shoreward. 

It  touched  the  beach,  and  the  trapper  and  Her 
bert  rose  to  their  feet ;  but  for  a  moment  neither 
stirred,  for  in  front  of  them,  not  thirty  feet  away, 
at  the  line  where  the  sand  and  the  green  mosses 
met,  and  looking  directly  at  them,  stood  a  man  and 
a  girl! 


Who   Was  He  147 

WHO  WAS  HE?  The  two  men  asked  this  ques 
tion  a  thousand  times  mentally  in  the  next  two 
months,  and  once  afterward  they  asked  it  aloud,  as 
they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  across  a  grave. 
But  to  the  question,  whether  spoken  or  silent,  no 
answer  ever  came. 

The  world  has  its  enigmas,  and  he  was  one. 

Amid  the  jabbering  crowd  we  chaff  and  chatter 
with,  we  meet  occasionally  a  man  who  never  chaffs 
nor  chatters,  —  a  man  who  sees  all  things  ;  perhaps 
because  of  this,  suffers  all  things,  but  says  nothing 
at  all.  The  sphinxes  are  still  extant.  The  old 
time  ones  were  of  stone  and  bronze ;  the  modern 
ones  are  of  flesh  and  blood ;  that's  all  the  differ 
ence.  Nay,  not  quite  all ;  for  the  secrets  that  the 
ancients  held  smothered  within  the  folds  of  their 
stony  silence  were  only  such  as  nature  revealed  to 
them  from  her  desert  posts, — the  secrets  of  sun 
rises  and  starry  nights  and  simoons  that  swept  the 
sandy  plain  and  of  civilizations,  the  murmurs  of 
whose  rising  and  the  crash  of  whose  sudden  over 
throw,  they  needs  must  hear.  But  the  secrets  that 
men  hear  today,  and  by  hearing  of  which  are  made 
silent,  are  the  secrets  of  lives  being  lived,  of  hearts 


148  Who  Was  He 

being  broken,  of  intentions  so  noble  and  failures  so 
bitter  as  to  make  men  sceptical  whether  God  keeps 
watch  over  the  passing  events  on  the  earth. 

Was  he  young?  No.  Was  he  old?  No,  again. 
How  old  was  he?  Forty,  perhaps  ;  it  may  be  fifty. 
The  two  men  who  stood  looking  at  him  never 
thought  of  his  age,  neither  then  nor  afterward  ; 
never  thought  whether  he  was  old  or  young. 
There  are  people  who  have  no  age  to  those  who 
know  them.  Is  it  because  their  bodies  so  little  rep 
resent  them?  A  friend  has  been  away  —  for  years. 
He  returns  ;  enters  your  room  ;  you  shake  his  hand 
heartily  in  welcome.  And  then  you  stand  off  and 
look  at  him.  You  look  at  his  hair  and  note  the 
gray  in  it  —  at  the  wrinkles  in  his  face  —  the  dozen 
and  one  marks  that  denote  change  —  and  say, 
"you've  grown  old,  old  boy;"  and  so  we  judge 
most  men,  and  so  they  should  be  judged.  Why? 
Because  they  are  not  great  and  strong  and  soul- 
large  enough  to  dwarf  their  bodies  out  of  sight 
and  dwindle  them  into  insignificance. 

But  now  and  then  you  meet  one  whose  mind  rep 
resents  him,  whose  soul  is  so  gloriously  finished 
that,  as  in  the  case  of  a  great  painting,  you  do  not 
think  of  the  frame  around  it,  nor  take  notice  of  it 


Who  Was  He  149 

at  all.  He  is  so  strong  vitally  ;  so  great  in  living 
force  —  in  vital  energies  —  in  moving  and  persuad 
ing  power — that  he  is  to  you  like  an  immense, 
endless,  all-conquering  Life,  wholly  independent  of 
his  embodiment,  who  might  exist  in  any  form, — 
angel,  archangel,  spirit,  winged  or  wingless,  super 
nal  or  infernal,  and  still,  in  all  forms,  in  all  places, 
in  all  moral  states  would  remain  true  to  himself 
and  be  the  same.  There  are  some,  I  say,  who 
are  like  this, — who  are  not  of  the  earth,  earthy, 
nor  of  the  body,  but  of  the  spirit,  whether  good  or 
bad,  spiritual :  angel  or  demon,  always. 

Do  you  knowr  one  such?  No?  Perhaps  not, 
for  they  are  rare,  very  rare.  But  some  such  there 
are,  and  if  you  do  not  know  one,  or  one  like 
to  such  a  one,  I  ask  you  if  you  do  not  think  of 
him  as  I  have  said?  Body!  what  is  body  to 
such  a  man?  what  is  a  formation  of  clay  deftly 
mingled  in  its  chemistry  round  about  such  an  in 
domitable  indwelling  spirit?  Does  the  old  rain- 
sodden  nest  photograph  the  bird,  the  swiftness 
and  glory  of  whose  wings  lived  in  it  once? 
What  is  age  to  such  a  one?  What  has  he  to  do 
with  the  passing  of  years?  Such  a  one  is  young 
and  old  both,  from  the  beginning  of  his  career  for- 


150  Who  Was  He 

ever  onward.  He  has  the  freshness  of  youth,  the 
strength  of  manhood,  and  the  sagacity  of  age, 
fixed  permanently  in  his  structure,  as  nature  fixes 
her  colors  in  the  fibre  of  the  ash  and  the  oak. 
Such  have  no  age.  How  silly  to  ask  how  old  he 
is.  If  you  ask  me,  I  should  answer,  Who  can 
tell?  Their  earthly  parents  say  they  were  born  on 
such  and  such  dates.  Were  they?  Or  had  they 
lived  as  Mary's  Son  had,  ages  before  they  took  — 
for  God's  wise  purpose  —  flesh?  Who  can  tell? 

" Heresy?"  I'm  not  writing  a  sermon,  I  am  writ 
ing  a  story,  and  I  seek  to  make  my  readers  think. 
That  would  not  be  essential  if  I  were  sermonizing. 
Good  people  don't  want  that  kind  of  preaching. 

But  to  return.  Was  he  young?  Was  he  old? 
Neither  then  nor  ever  after  did  Herbert  and  the 
trapper  think  of  him  as  having  age  ;  and  yet  he 
was  with  them,  and  his  body  had  all  the  marks 
which  reveal  to  the  noticing  eye  the  measure  of 

o         •/ 

man's  days.  This  is  the  young  man's  description 
of  him  : 

"Tall,  straight,  and  well-formed  ;  large  in  size, 
but  shapely,  hair  brown  with  gray  in  it ;  in  all  the 
face  a  look  of  great  power,  reserved,  but  ready  to 
act;  eyes  of  changeable  color,  that  took  the  shade 


WJw  Was  He  151 

of  the  emotion  that  chanced  to  come  and  look  out 
of  them  ;  when  unoccupied,  cold,  gray,  and  mean 
ingless  as  a  window-pane  behind  which  no  face  is  ; 
and  over  all  the  countenance  the  look  of  great 
gravity,  divided  by  but  the  slightest  line  from  sad 
ness." 

So  Herbert  described  him  ;  but  he  always  used 
to  add  :  "Remember,  this  was  only  his  body,  and 
therefore  no  description  at  all" 

The  girl?  Why,  certainly,  you  shall  know  of 
her,  and  from  the  same  authority  : 

"The  girl  that  was  with  this  strange  man  was 
not  a  girl  merely,  but  both  girl  and  woman  ;  for  she 
was  at  that  age  when  the  sweet  simplicity  of  the 
one,  and  the  full  charm  of  the  other,  come  into 
union,  and  a  time,  at  least,  stand  in  attractive  alli 
ance.  She  was  of  medium  height,  and  perfectly 
formed.  Her  hair  was  brown,  as  were  her  eyes, 
that  were  large  and  mild  of  look ;  and  over  all  her 
face  was  such  an  expression  of  gentleness  and 
peace  as  I  never  saw  on  any  other  woman's  face, 
and  she  loved  the  man  with  so  great  a  love  that  it 
made  her  life  and  took  it  both." 

For  a  moment  Herbert  and  the  trapper  stood 
looking  at  the  man  and  girl,  who  were  standing  on 


152  Who  Was  He 

the  edge  of  the  beach,  looking  silently  at  them; 
and  then  the  trapper  said,  still  standing  in  the  boat : 

"We  would  not  run  agin  ye  so  sudden-like  had 
we  seed  ye,  friend  ;  and  ef  our  company  be  not 
pleasant  to  ye,  we  will  move  on,  and  camp  on  some 
clump  furder  down,"  and  the  old  man  placed  his 
paddle  against  the  beach  as  if  he  would  breast 
the  boat  out  into  the  pool. 

"I  beg  you  not  to  do  so,"  answered  the  man  on 
the  beach  ;  "you  have  as  good  a  right  to  this  camp 
ground  as.  we,  and  I  dare  say  a  better  one,  as  we 
are  but  strangers  to  the  woods  ;  while  you,  old  man, 
look  as  if  you  had  made  them  your  home  for  years." 

"Ye  speak  the  truth,  friend,"  replied  the  trap 
per.  "Yis,  the  woods  be  my  home  ;  and  ef  livin' 
in  'em  gives  man  a  right,  few  would  gainsay  my 

O  O  O  •/  <M 

claim.  Yis,  it's  thirty  years  agone  sence  I  hefted 
the  fust  trout  from  this  pool,  and  br'iled  him  on  the 
bank  there,  —  and  a  toothsome  supper  he  made  for 
me,  too.  Lorcl-a-massy,  boy,"  exclaimed  the  old 
man,  half  turning  toward  his  companion,  "what  a 
thing  memory  be  !  Thirty  year  !  —  and  I've  seed 
some  wanderin'  sence  then, — but  I  remember  as 
though  I'd  eat  him  last  night  jest  how  that  trout 
tasted.  You're  sartin,  friend,  that  we  won't  distarb 
ye  ef  we  come  ashore  t" 


Who     Was  He 


153 


"No,  no,  old  man,"  answered  the  other,  "come 
ashore,  you  and  your  companion.  Our  camp  is 
the  other  side  of  the  balsam  thicket  there,  and  after 
you  have  built  your  own,  we  will  come  down  and 
pass  an  hour  with  you,  unless  we  should  disturb 
you  in  your  occupation  or  your  pleasure." 


"Conic  ashore,  you  and  your  companion." 

"I  be  a  man  of  the  wroods,  as  ye  see,"  repli 
ed  the  trapper,  "and  Henry,  here,  be  my  com 
panion  ;  and  though  his  home  be  in  the  city,  he 
has  consorted  with  me  so  much  that  he's  fallen 
into  my  habits, — though  it  should  be  said  to  his 
credit  that  the  Lord  gin  him  nateral  gifts  in  that 
direction ;  and  when  we  be  roamin',  we  take  but 


154  Wio  Was  He 

leetle  with  us,  and  our  camp  be  quickly  made. 
No,  no  ;  we  will  have  leetle  to  offer  ye  and  the 
lady,  but  ef,  when  the  sun  darkens  back  of  the 
mountain  there,  ye  will  honor  an  old  man  by 
yer  comin',  ye  shall  taste  some  venison  that's 
waited  three  days  for  the  mouth  and  is  tender,  as  it 
should  be.  And  ef  the  pool  here  will  make  its 
name  good,  ye  shall  have  a  trout  cooked  as  the 
hunter  cooks  it  when  the  fire  is  hot  and  the  wet 
moss  plenty." 

"We  will  certainly  come,"  answered  the  man. 
"I  came  into  the  woods  to  avoid  men,  not  to 
meet  them ;  but  your  face  is  honest  and  open 
as  the  day,  old  man ;  and  your  head  is  white 
as  is  the  head  of  wisdom.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
talk  with  you,  and  I  doubt  not  your  companion 
is  as  educated  as  you  are  knowing." 

"I've  seed  the  comin'  and  goin'  of  seventy 
year  sence  I've  been  on  the  arth,"  answered 
the  trapper,  stroking  his  head  with  the  pecu 
liar  motion  of  the  aged  when  speaking  of  their 
age  reflectively;  "and  much  have  I  seed  of  the 
passions  of  my  kind,  and  many  be  the  lessons 
that  natur'  has  larnt  me ;  and  ef  the  convarse 
of  an  old  man  who  lias  lived  leetle  in  the  clear- 


Who  Was  He  155 

in'  would  be  pleasant  to  ye,  yer  comin'  will 
be  welcome. — Yis,  yis,  boy,  I  seed  it.  Ye 
had  better  j'int  yer  rod,  and  I  will  start  a  fire. 
Ye  know  the  size  ye  want,  and  ye'll  find  'em 
out  there  where  the  bubbles  make  the  letter  S." 

The  two  strangers  retired  toward  their  own 
camp,  and  our  friends  set  about  their  several 
tasks.  Herbert  proceeded  to  joint  his  rod  and 
the  trapper  to  make  a  rude  fire-place  from  the 
stones  that  lined  the  bank  at  the  water's  edge. 

The  preparations  for  the  forthcoming  repast 
went  forward  rapidly.  The  pool  kept  its  rep 
utation  good  and  yielded  abundantly  to  the 
solicitation  of  Herbert's  flies.  The  trout  were 
large  and  in  excellent  condition  and  were  quick 
ly  made  ready  for  the  trapper's  treatment.  A 
large  piece  of  bark,  peeled  from  a  giant  spruce 
standing  near,  and  laid  upon  the  ground,  serv 
ed  for  the  table, — against  the  dark  bark  of 
which  the  tin  dishes  freshly  scoured  in  the  sand 
of  the  beach  gleamed  bright.  The  venison  and 
trout  were  cooked  as  only  one  accustomed  to 
the  woods  can  do  it,  and  the  trapper  contem 
plated  the  work  of  his  skill  with  pleased  com 
placency.  At  each  plate  Herbert  had  placed  a 


156  Who   Was  He 

bunch  of  checkerberries,  and  a  small  bouquet  of 
small  but  exceedingly  fragrant  flowers  adorned 
the  centre  of  the  bark  table. 

At   this    moment   the  man  and  girl  drew  near. 

"I  trust,"  said  the  man,  as  they  approached, 
"that  we  have  not  kept  you  waiting  by  our 
tardiness?" 

"Yer  comin'  be  true  to  a  minit,"  answered 
the  trapper,  glancing  up  at  the  western  moun 
tain,  the  top  of  whose  pines  the  lower  edge  of 
the  sun  had  just  touched.  "The  meat  be  ready. 
We  sartinly  can't  boast  of  the  bark  or  the 
dishes,"  he  continued,  "but  the  victuals  be  as 
good  as  natur'  allows,  and  yer  welcome  be 
hearty." 

"We  could  ask  no  more,"  said  the  man,  court 
eously,  "and  one  might  almost  think  that  the 
hand  of  woman  had  adorned  the  table." 

"The  posies  be  the  boy's  doin',"  replied  the 
trapper,  glancing  at  Herbert;  "lie  has  a  likin' 
for  their  color  and  smell,  and  I  never  knowed 
him  to  eat  without  a  green  sprig  or  a  bunch 
of  bright  moss  or  some  sech  thing  on  the  bark." 

"I  am  sure  I  do  not  like  them  any  better 
than  you  do,"  answered  Herbert,  smiling, 


Who  Was  He  157 

and  looking  pleasantly    into    the    old   man's    face. 

"They  be  of  the  Lord's  makin',"  responded 
the  trapper.  "They  be  of  the  Lord's  makin', 
and  it  be  fit  thet  mortals  should  love  'em,  as 
I  conceit.  I've  lived  a  good  deal  alone,"  he 
continued,  "but  I've  never  lived  in  a  cabin  yit 
that  didn't  have  a  few  leetle  flowers,  or  a  tuft 
of  grass,  or  a  speck  of  green  somewhere  about 
it.  They  sort  of  make  company  for  a  man  in 
the  winter  evenin's,  and  keep  his  thoughts  in 
cheerful  directions." 

"Your  sentiments  do  honor  to  your  nature," 
responded  the  other,  "and  I  am  glad  to  meet 
with  one  of  your  age,  who,  having  lived 
among  the  beauties  of  Nature,  has  not  allowed 
them  to  become  commonplace  and  unworthy  of 
notice.  Many  in  the  cities  show  less  refinement." 

"I  conceit  it  is  a  good  deal  in  the  breedin'," 
answered  the  trapper.  "There  be  some  that 
don't  know  good  from  evil  in  natur', — leastwise, 
they  don't  seem  to  have  any  eyes  to  note  the 
difference  ;  and  what  isn't  born  in  a  man  or  a 
dog  you  can't  edicate  into  him.  The  breedin' 
settles  more  p'ints  that  the  missioners  dream,  as 
I  jedge.  But  come,  friends,  the  victuals  be 


158  Who  Was  He 

coolin',    and    the    mouth    loves    a    warm    morsel." 

"I  am  certain,"  said  the  man,  as  they  were 
partaking  of  the  repast,  "that  I  never  tasted  a 
piece  of  venison  so  finely  flavored  before." 

"I've  cooked  the  meat  for  nigh  on  to  sixty 
year,"  answered  the  trapper,  "and  have  larnt 
not  to  spoil  the  sweetness  of  natur'  by  over- 
cloin'  it.  It's  a  quick  aim  that  brings  the  buck 
to  the  camp,  and  a  quick  iire  that  puts  the 
steak  on  to  the  plate  ready  for  the  mouth. — 
I  trust,  lady,  that  ye  enjoy  the  victuals?" 

"I  do,  indeed,"  answered  the  girl,  "and  if 
the  cooking  were  less  perfect,  I  should  count 
this  as  a  feast." 

"Yis,  yis ;  I  understand  ye,"  answered  the 
old  man.  "The  sound  of  the  tumblin'  water 
be  pleasant,  and  the  eye  eats  with  the  mouth," 
and  he  glanced  at  the  green  woods  that  stretch 
ed  away,  and  the  brightly-colored  clouds  that 
hung  like  fleece  of  gold  in  the  western  sky. 

"The  barbarian  eats  from  a  trough,"  remarked 
Herbert;  "civilize  him,  and  he  erects  a  table; 
and  as  you  add  to  his  refinement,  he  adorns 
that  table  until  the  furniture  of  it  magnifies  the 
feast  and  the  guests  think  more  of  the  beauty 


Who   Was  He 

of  the  adornments  than  of  the  food  they  swal 
low." 

And  so  with  pleasant  converse  the  meal  pro 
gressed.  Soon  the  sun  declined  and  darkness 
began  to  thicken  in  the  pines.  The  table  was 
moved  to  one  side,  the  dishes  cleansed  and  the 
fire  lighted  for  the  evening.  With  the  dark 
ness  silence  had  fallen  upon  the  group,  —  not 
that  silence  which  is  awkwrard  and  oppressive, 
or  which  comes  from  lack  of  thought,  but  that 
fine  silence,  rather,  which  is  only  the  thin  shadow 
of  the  reflective  mood,  and  because  the  thought 
is  inward  and  overfull. 

And  so  the  four  sat  in  silence  by  the  fire. 
Above,  a  few  great  stars  shone  warmly.  Here 
and  there  the  rapids  flashed  white  through  the 
gloom.  From  a  huge  pine  on  the  other  side 
of  the  pool  a  horned  owl  challenged  the  dark 
ness  with  his  ponderous  call. 

Suddenly  the  man  broke  the  silence,  —  broke 
it  with  a  question  which  led  to  a  remarkable 
conversation,  and  a  tragical  result.  And  the 
question  was  this  :  — 

"Friend,  answer  me  this  question:  If  a  man 
take  a  life,  should  he  gi~cc  his  o-^vn  life  in  atone 
ment  for  the  dreadful  deed  ?" 


160  mo  Was  He 


III 

"If  a  man  take  a  life,  should  he  give  his 
own  life  in  atonement  for  the  dreadful  deed?" 

Such  was  the  question  that  the  man  asked. 
He  was  looking  at  the  trapper  at  the  time, — 
looking  at  him  steadily ;  but  the  sound  of  his 
voice  as  he  put  the  question  did  not  seem  to 
give  personal  direction  to  the  solemn  interro 
gation  ;  it  seemed  rather  the  echo  of  a  reflec 
tion,  as  if  his  own  mind  in  its  communings 
had  come  upon  the  terrible  question,  and  the 
words,  without  volition  of  his  own,  which 
framed  it  into  speech,  had  passed  out  of  his 
mouth. 

lie  was  looking  at  the  trapper,  as  we  said, 
and  the  trapper  was  looking  into  the  fire, — the 
light  of  which,  that  came  and  went  in  flashes, 
brought  distinctly  out  the  settled  gravity  of  the 
features,  and  the  rugged  buc  grand  proportions 
of  the  head.  There  is  no  better  light  in  which 
to  see  an  old  man's  face  than  the  fitful  fire- 


Who  Was  He  161 

light ;  and  no  better  background  than  that  which 
the  darkness  makes. 

One  would  have  thought  that  the  interroga 
tion  was  not  heard,  for  on  the  trapper's  face 
there  showed  no  line  of  change.  The  girl  re 
mained  looking  steadfastly  into  the  face  of  the 
questioner,  and  Herbert  made  no  response. 

"I  asked  you  a  question,  old  trapper,"  said 
the  man;  "a  question  which  reaches  to  the 
depths  of  human  responsibility,  and  points  to 
the  heights  of  human  sacrifice.  In  the  old  days, 
the  wisdom  of  the  world  was  with  those  who 
lived  with  Nature.  Your  head  is  white,  and 
you  tell  me  you  have  lived  in  the  woods  since 
you  were  a  boy.  You  have  seen  war;  have 
stood  in  battle ;  have  slain  your  man,  and  made 
many  graves  of  those  you  have  slain.  Have 
you  wisdom?  Are  you  able  to  answer  the  ques 
tion  I  have  asked  you?" 

"I  have,  as  ye  say,"  answered  the  trapper, 
"ben  in  wars.  I've  stood  in  battle;  I've  slain 
men ;  I've  buried  those  I  have  slain ;  I  know 
what  it  is  to  take  a  human  creeter's  life,  and 
I  think  I  know  where  the  right  to  do  the  deed 
stops  and  where  it  begins." 


162  Who  Was  lie 

"Where  does  it  begin?"  asked  the  man; 
"where  does  the  right  to  take  human  life  be 
gin?" 

The  words  came  forth  slowly  and  heavy- 
weighted  with  meaning.  It  was  evident  that 

o  o 

the  question  which  the  man  asked  was  not 
asked  as  one  interrogates,  but  as  one  puts  a 
question  that  has  personal  application  to  him 
self.  The  trapper  felt  this.  lie  looked  into  the 
man's  face,  and  studied  his  countenance  a  mo 
ment  ;  noted  the  breadth  of  brow,  the  large, 
deep-set  eyes,  the  fine  curvature  of  the  chin 
and  cheek ;  saw  the  beauty  and  splendor  of  it ; 
saw  what  some  might  not  have  seen, — both  the 
beauty  of  its  peaceful  mood  and  the  terrible- 
ness  of  the  wrath  that  might  surge  out  of  it, 
—  saw  all  this,  and  without  answering  the  ques 
tion,  said  simply, — 

"You    have    killed    a    man." 

The  stranger  looked  steadily  back  into  the 
trapper's  face,  and  answered  as  simply,— 

"Yes,    I    am    a  murderer." 

Herbert  started  a  trifle.  The  girl  gave  a 
slight  exclamation  and  lifted  her  hand  as  if  in 

O 

protest.     The   trapper   alone    made  reply, — 


Who  Was  He  163 

"Ye  sartinly  don't  look  like  a  murderer, 
friend." 

"lie  is  none!  he  is  none!"  exclaimed  the 
girl.  "He  had  provocation,  old  man  !  he  had 
provocation  ! "  and  then  she  turned  toward  the 
man,  and  said:  "Why  will  you  say  such  things? 
Why  will  you  condemn  yourself  wrongly?  Why 
do  you  brood  over  a  deed  done  in  wrath,  and 
under  the  strain  that  few  might  resist,  as  it  had 
been  done  in  cold  blood,  and  with  a  murder 
er's  malice  and  forethought  of  evil?" 

The  man  listened  to  her  gravely,  with  a  kind 
of  considerate  patience  in  the  look  of  his  face  ; 
waited  a  moment,  when  she  had  finished,  as 
one  might  wait  from  the  habit  of  politeness, 
and  then,  without  answering  her,  said  : 

"You  have  not  answered  my  question,  old 
trapper." 

"I  can't  answer  it,  —  I  sartinly  can't  answer 
it,  friend,  onlcss  I  know  the  sarcumstances  of 
the  killin'  ;  for  there  be  killin'  that  be  right  and 
there  be  killin'  that  be  wrong,  and  onless  I  know 
the  sarcumstances  of  the  killin',  my  words  would 
be  like  the  words  of  a  boy  that  talks  in  coun 
cil  without  knowing  what  he  is  talkin'.  Ef  ye 
killed  a  man,  how  did  ye  kill  him?" 


164  Who  Was  He 

"I  killed  him  face  to  face,"  answered  the 
man,  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  repeat 
ed,  "Face  to  face." 

'•Why  did  ye  kill  him?"  asked  the  trapper. 
"Had  he  done  ye  wrong?" 

"He  was  my  friend,"  said  the  man,  "my 
friend,  true  and  tried." 

"Had  he  done  ye  a  wrong?"  persisted  the 
trapper. 

"What  is  \vrong?"  asked  the  man.  "I  can't 
tell  whether  he  had  done  me  wrong  or  nay.  I 
only  know  he  had  crossed  my  purpose,  —  stop 
ped  me  from  doing  what  I  had  set  my  heart 
on  doing ;  and  what  I  set  my  heart  on  doing, 
old  man,  /  do."  And  the  man's  eyes  darken 
ed  under  the  abundant  brow  and  the  face  tight 
ened  and  contracted,  as  a  rope  when  a  strain 
is  upon  it.  "The  man  came  between  me  and 
my  purpose,"  he  added,  "he  stood  up  and  fac 
ed  me,  and  said  I  should  not  do  what  I  pro 
posed  to  do,  and  should  not  have  what  I  had 
sworn  to  have  ;  and  I  killed  him  where  he  stood." 

It  was  astonishing  how  quietly  the  words  were 
said,  considering  the  tremendous  energy  of  will 
which  was  charged  into  and  through  their  quiet 
ness. 


Who   Was  He  165 

"He  had  no  right  to  do  it,"  said  the  girl; 
"he  had  no  right  to  do  it.  It  was  none  of  his 
business,  and  you  know  it  wasn't."  And  she 
spoke,  apparently  to  the  man,  "Oh,  sir,  why 
do  you  not  tell  them  that  he  was  an  intermed- 
dler,  and  meddled  with  what  was  none  of  his 
business,  —  kindled  you  to  rage  by  his  meddling, 
and  that  you  slew  him  in  your  rage,  thought 
lessly,  unintentionally?  Why  do  you  not  tell 
them  these  things?" 

The  man  listened  to  her  again,  politely.  There 
was  a  look  of  grave  courtesy  in  his  eye  as  he 
half  turned  his  face  and  looked  upon  her  as 
she  was  speaking ;  but  beyond  this  there  was 
no  recognition  that  he  heard  her.  When  she 
had  finished,  he  turned  his  face  again  toward 
the  trapper,  and  said : 

"Old  trapper,  you  have  not  answered  my 
question.  Has  a  man  a  right  to  take  life?" 

"Sartinly,"   answered    the    trapper. 

"How?"    asked    the    man. 

"In    war,"    answered    the    trapper. 

"In  any  other  way?"  queried  the  man. 


i66  Who  Was  He 

"Yis,  —  in  self-defence." 

"Any    other   cause?"    persisted    the    stranger. 

"Not    as  a   rule,"    answered    the    trapper. 

After  this  there  was  a  silence.  The  girl's 
head  dropped  into  her  two  palms  and  for  an 
instant  her  frame  shook,  as  one  contesting  the 
passage  of  a  strong  feeling  that  insists  on  ex 
pression.  The  three  men  made  no  motion,  but 
sat  silently  gazing  into  the  fire. 

For  several  minutes  the  silence  lasted.  There 
are  two  living  that  will  never  forget  that  silence. 
Then  the  man  lifted  his  face  and  said, — 

"Old  trapper,  have  you  ever  known  remorse?' 

"I  can't  say  I  ever  did,"  answered  the  trap 
per;  "though  I've  felt  a  leetle  oneasy  arter  deal- 
in'  with  the  thievin'  vagabonds  whose  tracks 
I've  found  on  the  line  of  my  traps.  It  has 
seemed  to  me,  sometimes,  in  the  evenin',  in 
thinkin'  the  matter  over,  that  perhaps  a  leetle 
less  bullet  and  a  leetle  more  scriptur'  might 
have  did  jest  as  well.  But  a  man  is  apt  to  be 
a  leetle  ha'sh  in  his  anger ;  but  I  have  an 
idee  that  the  Lord  makes  some  allowance  for 
a  man's  doin's  when  he's  a  good  deal  r'iled. 
That's  where  the  marcy  comes  in.  Yis,  that's 


.   Who    Was  He  167 

where  the  marcy  comes  in;  isn't  it,  boy?" 
and  the  old  man  looked  at  Herbert. 

"There  is  certainly  where  we  need  the  mercy 
to  come  in,"  answered  Herbert;  "but  it  were 
better  that  we  acted  so  that  mercy  need  not 
be  shown." 

The  man  listened  to  Herbert's  reply  with  an 
expression  of  strong  assent  on  his  countenance, 
then  he  turned  to  the  trapper. 

"You  say,  old  man,  that  you  never  knew 
remorse.  Happy  has  your  life  been  because  of 
it ;  and  happy  shall  your  life  be  to  its  close. 
I  have  known  remorse.  It  is  a  fearful  know 
ledge, —  as  fearful  as  the  knowledge  of  hell. 
Woe  to  the  man  that  does  an  evil  deed.  That 
instant  he  is  doomed;  doomed  to  anguish.  His 
divinity  punishes  him.  Within  his  bosom  the 
great  tribunal  is  instantly  set  up.  The  judge 
takes  his  seat.  The  witnesses  are  summoned ; 
and  the  whole  universe  swarms  to  the  trial.  His 
memory  is  a  torment ;  and  all  the  forces  of  his 
mind  suddenly  concentrate  in  memory, —  the  mem 
ory  of  one  deed,  or  of  many  deeds,  even  as 
his  sin  has  been  sole  or  manifold.  What  tor 
ment,  old  man,  is  like  the  torment  of  one  whose 


1 68  Who  Was  He 

memory    is    confined   wholly    to    his    evil    deeds !" 
No  one  made  any  reply.     The  anguish  of  the 
man's    speech    made    response   impossible. 

"Before  I  did  the  deed,"  he  continued,  after 
a  pause,  "my  memory  took  knowledge  of  all 
sweet  things ;  of  all  dear  faces  I  have  ever 
seen ;  of  all  generous  and  blessed  deeds  I  had 
ever  done.  But  after  that  I  could  remember 
but  one  thing, —  the  murderer;  only  one  face, 
—the  face  of  him  I  killed,  and  all  my  life,  and 
the  glory  of  it,  was  thrown  into  black  eclipse 
by  that  one  terrible  act.  Before  I  did  the  deed 
Nature  was  a  joy  to  me,  but  now  in  every 
star  I  see  his  countenance  looking  down  upon 
me.  In  every  flower  I  see  his  still,  cold  face. 
The  winds  bear  to  me  his  voice.  The  water 
of  those  rapids" — and  the  man  stretched  his 
hand  out  towards  the  flowing  river — "sounds  to 
me  like  the  rattle  in  his  throat  as  he  lay  dying. 
How  shall  I  find  release,  old  man?  How  quit 
myself  of  this  terrible  curse?"  and  the  man's 
words  ended  in  a  groan. 

"The  mercy  of  the  Lord  be  great,"  replied 
the  trapper;  "greater  than  any  deed  of  guilt  did 
by  mortal ;  great  enough  to  cover  you,  friend, 


Who   Was  lie  169 

and  your  misdoin',  as  a  mother  covers  the  error  of 
her  child  with  her  forgiveness." 

"I  know  the  mercy  of  the  Lord  is  great," 
answered  the  man,  "I  know  His  forgiveness  cov 
ers  all ;  but  the  old  law  —  old  as  the  world,  old 
as  guilt  and  justice  —  the  law  of  life  for  life  and 
blood  for  blood, — lias  never  been  repealed.  And 
this  is  the  one  comfort  left  for  the  noble  :  that  how 
ever  great  the  guilt,  however  wicked  the  deed, 
the  atonement  can  be  as  great  as  the  sin.  He  who 
dies  pays  all  debts.  He  who  has  sent  one  to  the 
grave  and  goes  to  the  grave  voluntarily,  goes  into 
the  arms  of  mercy.  I  know  not  where  else,  with 
all  his  searching,  man  may  surely  find  it." 

Again  there  was  silence.  Above,  the  stars 
shone  warmly  through  the  dusky  gloom.  The  rap 
ids  roared,  falling  hoarsely  through  the  darkness. 
A  moaning  ran  along  the  pine-tops  ;  the  firelight 
flamed  and  flickered,  and  the  flames  flashed  the 
four  faces  into  sight  that  were  grouped  around  the 
brands.  At  length  the  trapper  said  : 

"What  is  it  ye  have  in  yer  heart  to  do,  friend?" 

"I  took  a  life,"  answered  the  man;  "I  must 
give  one  in  return.  I  took  a  life  and  my  life  is 
forfeited.  This  is  my  condemnation,  and  I  pro- 


1 70  Who   Was  He 

nounce  it  on  myself.  My  judge  is  not  above  ;  my 
judge  is  within.  In  this  the  world  finds  protection, 
and  in  this  the  sinner  finds  release  from  sin. 
There  is  no  other  way ;  at  least,  no  other  way  so 
perfect.  One  man  was  great  enough  to  die  for  the 
sins  of  others.  They  who  would  rise  to  the  level 
of  his  life  must  be  great  enough  to  lay  down  their 
life  for  their  own  sins.  This  is  justice  ;  and  out  of 
such  true  justice  blooms  the  perfect  mercy."  To 
this  the  man  added  thoughtfully,  "There  is  but 
one  objection." 

"What  is  the  objection?"  asked  Herbert. 
"What  is  the  objection,  if  one  be  great  enough  to 
make  so  great  a  sacrifice?" 

"The  objection,"  answered  the  man,  "is  found 
in  this :  it  is  so  deep  a  sin  to  kill ;  it  is  so  easy  a 
thing  to  die  —  for  what  is  death?  The  ignorant 
dread  it  because  they  do  not  analyze  it ;  their  lack 
of  thoughtfulness  makes  them  cowardly  ;  for  death 
is  going  out  of  bondage  into  liberty.  He  who 
passes  through  the  dark  gate  finds  himself,  when 
he  has  passed,  standing  in  the  cloudless  sunshine. 
In  dying,  the  sorrowful  become  glad  ;  the  small 
become  greater ;  and  if  they  die  rightly,  the  sinful 
become  sinless.  If  a  great  motive  prompts  us  to 


Who  Was  He  171 

death,  it  is  the  perfect  regeneration.  Entering 
thus  the  new  life,  man  is  born  anew.  And  so  in 
punishment  the  great  law  of  mercy  stands  revealed, 
and  sin  leads  up  to  sinlessness.  In  such  travail  of 
soul,  he  who  suffers  through  suffering  is  satisfied." 

"It  is  sublime  philosophy,"  exclaimed  Herbert, 
"but  few  are  great  enough  to  practice  it." 

"Rather,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  man,  "few  are 
knowing  enough  to  accept  it.  The  eyes  of  men, 
through  their  ignorance,  are  blinded  by  fear  and 
they  see  not  the  delivering  gates  though  they  stand 
facing  the  open  passage." 

"Life  is  sweet." 

The  words  fell  from  the  lips  of  Herbert  as  if  they 
spoke  themselves. 

"To  the  innocent,  life  is  sweet,"  answered  the 
man,  "but  to  the  guilty,  life  is  bitterness.  The 
world  was  not  made  for  the  guilty.  The  beauties 
and  glories  of  it  were  not  for  them.  The  universe 
is  not  sustained  for  them.  Only  for  the  good  do 
things  exist.  The  breasts  of  life  are  full ;  but  their 
nourishment  is  not  for  guilty  lips  to  draw.  I  have 
seen  the  time  when  life  was  sweet.  I  have  lived  to 
see  the  time  when  life  is  bitter.  Through  death  I 
go  out  of  bitterness  info  sweetness.  This  is  the 


172  Who  Was  He 

mercy  that  is  unto  all  and  which  all  can  take  — 
take  freely.  Some  get  it  through  another  —  all 
might  get  it  through  themselves." 

"It  is  a  violent  deed  to  kill  one's  self,"  said  the 
trapper. 

"You  mistake,"  answered  the  man,  "there  is  a 
coarse,  rude  way  ;  there  is  a  fine  and  noble  way. 
'I  have  power,'  said  the  Man,  'to  lay  down  my  life 
and  I  have  power  to  take  it  again.'  Do  you  not 
think,  old  trapper,  that  a  man  can  die  when  he 
wills?" 

"I  don't  understand  ye,"  ans\vered  the  trapper. 

"The  soul  rules  the  body,"  replied  the  stranger. 
"The  soul  is  not  bound  to  the  body  ;  it  lives  in  it 
as  a  man  lives  in  his  house.  My  body  is  only  my 
environment.  I  can  quit  it  at  will.  I  can  go  out 
of  it." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  asked  Herbert,  "that 
we  can  leave  our  bodies  through  determination  of 
purpose  and  mental  decision?" 

"There  have  been  such  cases,"  answered  the 
man,  "and  such  cases  there  might  be  continually. 
If  the  relations  between  the  soul  and  the  body  are 
recognized  and  the  supreme  authority  of  the  one 
over  the  other  allowed  full  action,  the  soul  can  do 


'77/c  /bar  5a/  /'«  silence  by  the  fire."     (Sec  page  759.) 


Who   Was  He  175 

anything  it  pleases.  It  can  come  and  it  can  go. 
This  is  my  faith." 

While  the  foregoing  conversation  was  being  con 
ducted,  the  girl  had  remained  silent.  Herbert  sat 
opposite  to  her ;  and  as  the  firelight  flamed  her 
face  into  sight,  he  could  not  but  note  the  expres 
sion  of  it.  The  look  of  her  face  was  that  of  one 
who  \vas  listening  to  what  she  had  heard  before  — 

o 

perhaps  many  times  before,  and  which,  upon  the 
hearing,  she  had  combated  and  wras  determined  to 
continue  to  combat.  And  at  this  point  she  sud 
denly  spoke  up. 

"I  think,  sir,"  —  and  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  the 
face  of  the  man,  —  "that  the  living  should  live  for 
the  living  rather  than  die  for  the  dead  ;  for  the 
dead  have  no  wants,  neither  of  the  body  nor  of  the 
heart,  neither  of  the  mind  nor  the  soul ;  for,  if  they 
want,  God  feeds  them.  But  the  living  want  and 
crave  and  have  deep  needs  and  God  feeds  not  at 
all,  unless  through  us  who  live  ;  and  it  is  our  duty  to 
do,  and  not  to  die." 

The  wrords  were  clearly  and  slowly  spoken, 
spoken  in  a  quiet  but  determined  tone.  The  old 
trapper  raised  his  face  and  looked  at  the  girl,  as  if 
surprised  at  the  wisdom  of  her  speech.  Herbert 


176  mo  Was  He 

was    already  looking    at   her.     The    man    slowly 
turned  his  face  towards  her,  and  said  : 

"Mary,  we  have  argued  that  point  before." 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  was  not  one  of 
rebuke,  and  yet  it  conveyed  the  idea  that  the  point 
was  settled  and  was  not  to  be  reopened.  The  girl 
waited  a  moment  respectfully,  as  if  she  felt  pro 
found  deference  for  the  other's  character  and 
would  not  willingly  oppose  his  wish,  and  then  she 
said  : 

"I  know,  sir,  we  have  discussed  it  before  ;  but  it 
is  not  settled,  and  never  can  be  settled  ;  for  it  sets 
in  comparison  the  value  of  two  lives  —  the  one  that 
was  and  the  one  that  is ;  and  I  say  that  there  are 
lives  —  of  which  yours  is  one  —  that  belong  to  oth 
ers  and  cannot  be  disposed  of  as  if  they  were  a 
selfish  thing.  And  life  is  a  truer  atonement  for  sin 
than  death.  You  owe  more  than  one  debt,  and 
you  have  no  right  to  pay  the  one,  however  great  it 
is,  if  by  the  paying  of  that  you  leave  the  others 
unpaid." 

"Friend,"  said  the  trapper,  "the  girl  speaks 
wisdom  ;  leastwise  she  brings  matter  into  the  coun 
cil  which  men  of  gravity  should  not  overlook. 


Who    Was  He  177 

The  livin'  sartinly  have  claims.     What  can  3-011  say 
to  her  speech?" 

For  a  moment  the  man  made  no  reply,  and  then 
he  said  : 

"My  philosophy  is  based  upon  a  sentiment — a 
sentiment  born  of  conscience,  and  conscience 
makes  duty  for  us  all.  There  is  no  reasoning 
against  conscience.  It  is  the  voice  of  God — the 
only  God  we  have.  My  conscience  tells  me  that 
there  is  but  one  atonement  that  I  can  make. 
There  is  no  election.  I  must  do  it." 

"What  good,"  said  Herbert,  addressing  the 
man,  "what  good  will  you  do  by  dying  ?  " 

"I  shall  satisfy  myself,"  said  the  man. 

"And  what  right  have  you  to  satisfy  yourself  in 
such  a  matter?"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "What  right 
have  any  of  us  to  satisfy  ourselves?  What  right 
have  we  to  be  selfish  in  our  death  any  more  than 
in  our  life?  Oh,  sir,  if  you  saw  rightly,  you  would 
see  that  you  had  no  right  to  satisfy  yourself  in  this 
dreadful  way.  You  should  satisfy  others.  They 
need  you  even  as  the  poor  need  the  rich ;  as  the 
weak  need  the  strong  ;  as  those  who  are  prone, 
because  they  cannot  lift  themselves,  need  one  who 
is  strong  enough  to  lift  them.  It  is  not  heroic  to 

o  o 


178  W/io  Was  He 

die  unless  the  full  object  of  life  is  met  by  the 
dying.  It  is  heroic  to  live,  because  it  is  harder 
than  dying.  Even  death  dedicated  to  atonement 
can  be  a  greater  sin  than  the  deed  which  one 
would  atone." 

"I  know  not  how  the  girl  has  such  wisdom," 
said  the  trapper,  "for  she  be  young,  and  y it  she 
sartinly  seems  to  me  to  have  the  right  of  it.  I 
know  not  who  ye  be,  nor  how  many  look  to  ve  for 
help  ;  but  ef  ye  be  one  that  can  help,  and  there  be 
many  that  need  yer  help,  I  sartinly  conceit  that  ye 
should  live  —  live  to  help  'em." 

"You  say  right!  You  say  right,  old  man!" 
exclaimed  the  girl.  "His  life  is  not  a  common 
life.  It  represents  such  power  and  faculty  and 
opportunity,  and  I  may  say  such  devotion  to  the 
many,  that  it  does  not  belong  to  him,  and  mav  not 
therefore  be  disposed  of  as  if  he  owned  it  himself 
and  had  the  right  to  do  with  it  as  he  pleased." 

"I  do  not  say,"  answered  the  man,  "that  I  own 
my  life.  I  say  rather  that  I  do  not  own  it.  I  owe 
it.  There  are  debts  you  cannot  pay  by  life.  The 
laws  of  the  whole  world  recognize  this  ;  nor  do  we 
do  by  living  the  greatest  service.  He  who  dies  to 
uphold  a  righteous  principle  fulfils  all  righteous- 


Who   Was  He  179 

ness.  He  who  gives  away  a  life  in  atonement  for 
a  life  taken  makes  all  life  more  sacred ;  and  so  he 
serves  the  living  beyond  all  other  service  he  might 
do.  She  looks  at  individuals;  I  observe  princi 
ples.  She  contemplates  only  the  present;  I  fore 
cast  the  future  needs  of  man.  Moreover,  the  high 
est  service  one  can  do  man  is  to  serve  himself  in 
the  highest  manner.  He  who  ministers  to  his  own 
sense  of  justice  strengthens  the  judicial  sense  of 
the  world.  Men  overvalue  life  when  they  suppose 
that  there  is  nothing  better.  To  teach  them  that 
there  is  something  better,  to  impress  them  by  some 
signal  event  that  there  is  something  higher  and 
nobler  than  mere  living,  is  to  fulfill  all  benevolence 

O  7 

to  their  souls.  How  many  the  Saviour  could  feed 
and  heal  and  bless  by  avoiding  Calvary  !  And  yet 
he  did  not  avoid  it.  He  showed  the  object  of  life, 
which  is  service.  I  trust  I  have  not  wholly  failed 
to  show  men  that.  lie  then  showed  the  highest 
object  of  dying,  which  is  service.  Why  should  I 
not  imitate  him?  Why  should  I  not  be  a  law  unto 
myself  and  bear  the  penalty  voluntarily  ?" 

The  man  rose  to  his  feet  as  he  concluded,  and 
looking  at  the  trapper  and  Herbert,  said  : 

"Gentlemen,   I  thank  you    for  your  hospitality 


i8o  Who  Was  He 

and  courtesy,"  and  turning  to  the  girl  he  said, 
"Mary,  we  will  talk  this  matter  over  more  fully  by 
ourselves." 

And  then   he  bowed  to  the  group   and   turned 
away. 


Was  He  181 


IV 

LONG  after  the  man  and  the  girl  had  departed, 
the  trapper  and  Herbert  sat  by  their  campfire  dis 
cussing  the  question  which  their  guest  had  pro 
pounded.  Their  conversation  was  grave  and  delib 
erate,  as  became  the  theme  ;  and  they  united  in  the 
opinion  that  if  the  deed  had  been  done  in  anger 
elicited  by  a  provocation,  the  man  should  give  him 
self  the  favor  which  the  law  even  would  allow 
under  similar  circumstances. 

"I  tell  ye,  Herbert,"  said  the  trapper,  "the  girl 
said  the  man  had  cause  ;  leastwise,  that  the  man 
whom  he  struck  worried  him  to  it  and  that  the 
blow  was  given  in  anger.  Now,  hot  blood  is  hot 
blood,  and  cold  blood  is  cold  blood,  and  ef  a  man 
kill  another  man  in  cold  blood  it  be  murder, — the 
law  says  so,  and  what  is  better,  natur'  says  so  ;  but 
ef  a  man  kill  another  man  in  his  anger,  when  his 
blood  is  up  and  he  is  strongly  provoked  to  it,  the 
law  says  there  be  a  difference,  and  it  isn't  murder. 
And  I  conceit  that  the  girl  be  right,  and  that  the 


182  Who  Was  He 

man  has  no  right,  in  natur'  or  law  either,  to  murder 
himself  because  in  his  anger  he  murdered  another 
man.  And  besides,"  continued  the  old  man,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  during  which  he  had  evidently 
made  an  effort  at  memory,  "  ef  there  be  any  wrath 
in  the  case  it  belongs  to  the  Lord  and  not  to  man. 
Ye  may  recall  the  varse,  Henry." 

'"  Vengeance  is  mine;  I  ivill  repay,  s aith  the 
Lord'"  Such  was  the  quotation  Herbert  made. 

"Sartinly,  sartinly,"  answered  the  trapper,  "that 
is  it.  Vengeance  is  tine  Lord's,  and  he  is  the  onlv 
one  that  can  handle  it  rightly  ;  and  the  man  had 
better  leave  it  to  the  Lord." 

For  several  moments  Herbert  made  no  reply  ; 
and  then,  as  if  speaking  to  himself  more  than  his 
companion,  he  said  : 

"  How  the  girl  loves  him  ! " 

"Ye've  hit  it,  Henry,"  answered  the  trapper, 
promptly.  "  Yis,  ye've  hit  it  in  the  centre.  I  noted 
her  face,  the  look  in  her  eyes  and  the  arnestness 
of  her  voice  ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  about  the  mat 
ter  of  the  lovin'.  She  is  one  of  the  quiet  kind, 
boy  ;  and  she  has  got  the  faculty  of  listenin'  a  long 
time,  which  isn't  nateral  to  a  woman.  But  when 
she  speaks,  ye  can  see  what  she  is.  She  has  a 


Who  Was  He  183 

quiet  face  but  a  detarmined  spent.  I've  seed  sev 
eral  of  the  same  sort,  —  seed  them  afore  the  battle 
and  arter  the  battle;  and  I  know  what's  in  the 
heart  of  the  girl.  Yis,  I  know  what's  in  the  heart, 
of  the  girl,"  and  the  old  man  looked  at  his  com 
panion  across  the  camp  fire. 

The  young  man  returned  his  gaze,  and  then  said 
quietly  : 

"What  is  in  the  heart  of  the  girl,  John  Norton?" 

"  Ef  the  man  dies,  the  girl  dies,  too,"  answered 
the  trapper,  and  stooping,  he  pushed  a  brand  into 
the  centre  of  the  fire. 

"It  is  awful  to  think  so,"  replied  the  young  man, 
"it  is  awful  to  think  that  one  so  lovely  should  die 
so  miserable." 

"  She  belongs  to  the  kind  that  does  sech  things," 
answered  the  trapper.  "But  whether  ye  can  call 
her  dyin'  miserable,  I  sartinly  doubt ;  for  there  be 
some  that  can't  die  miserable  owin'  to  their  feelin's. 
And  I've  noted  that  them  who  die  feelin'  a  sartin  way 
die  happy  whenever  they  die  ;  for  death  means  one 
thing  to  one  and  another  thing  to  another ;  and  the 
heart  that  has  lost  all,  is  happy  to  go  in  sarch  of  it, 
even  ef  it  be  alon^  the  trail  that  the  sun  never 

o 

shines  on." 


184  Who  Was  He 

And  so  the  two  men  sat  and  talked,  feeding  the 
camp  fire  with  sticks  occasionally  as  they  talked. 
They  wondered  who  the  man  was  and  whence  he 
came,  wondered  if  he  would  change  his  views  and 
if  the  girl  could  win  him  over  to  a  rational  way  of 
looking  at  the  deed  that  had  been  done  and  the 
true  way  to  atone  for  it ;  wondered  if  they  could  not 
assist  her  in  her  loving  task  when  the  morning 
came ;  talked  and  wondered  and  planned,  and  at 
last,  wrapping  their  blankets  around  them,  they  laid 
down  to  sleep.  The  last  words  spoken  were  by 
the  Trapper,  and  were  these  : 

"We  will  go  over  in  the  mornin',  Herbert,  and 
help  the  girl." 

And  then  they  slept. 

Beyond  the  balsam  thicket,  by  another  camp  fire, 
the  girl  and  the  man  sat  talking,  talking  of  the 
deed  that  had  been  done  and  the  atonement 
demanded,  and  of  the  great  future  beyond  this 
present  life  ;  the  future  that  stretches  away  end 
lessly,  the  future  of  peace  to  some,  perhaps  to  all, 
who  knows?  For  there  be  some  who  think  that 
this  life  has  in  it  such  forces  of  education,  such 
enlightenment  to  the  understanding,  such  quicken- 


Who   Was  He  185 

ing  to  the  conscience,  such  ripening  of  character; 
and  that  through  its  experiences,  its  trials,  and  its 
griefs,  come  such  graces  to  the  souls  of  those  that 
leave  it,  that  when  they  pass  they  leave  their  worse 
self  behind  them,  even  as  the  germ  leaves  the 
shuck  out  of  which  it  sprouted,  —  leaves  the  dull, 
damp  ground  forever  while  it  groweth  up  into  the 
sunlight  in  which  it  finds  perfection. 

"Mary,"  said  the  man,  "I  have  done  with  the 
past.  My  mind  turns  wholly  toward  the  future.  I 
see  it  as  the  shipwrecked  sailor  sees  the  land, 
which,  if  he  can  but  reach,  he  will  not  only  be 
beyond  the  storm  that  wrecks  him,  but  beyond  all 
storms  forever.  Companion  of  my  joys  and  com 
panion  of  my  grief,  —  companion  in  everything  but 
in  my  sin,  —  counsel  with  me,  with  your  eyes  turned 
ahead.  You  are  innocent  and  innocence  is  pro 
phetic.  What  lies  beyond  this  world  and  the  life 
men  live  in  it?  What  of  good  waits  for  him  who 
gives  up  this  life  bravely  and  penitently,  and  trusts 
himself  to  the  decisions  and  the  certainties  of  the 
great  hereafter?" 

"My  master,"  said  the  girl,  "it  is  not  for  me  to 
teach  you,  you  who  are  so  much  greater  than  I, 
you  who  have  been  gifted  with  faculties  and  pow- 


186  Who   Was  He 

ers  that  have  lifted  you  above  men.  What  can  I 
say  to  you  save  to  repeat  what  you  have  said  to  me  ?" 

"Mary,"  he  replied,  "talk  to  me  from  out  your 
heart  and  not  from  out  your  mind.  The  prophe 
cies  that  come  to  men  from  Heaven,  Heaven  has 
communicated  through  the  emotions  of  the  just 
and  the  pure,  and  not  through  the  perceptions. 
Tell  me  of  the  faith  of  your  heart,  the  heart  which 
I  know  has  been  free  of  guile.  Tell  me  of  the 
great  Hereafter  and  what  awaits  me  there." 

"The  Hereafter?"  said  the  girl,  and  she  lifted 
her  eyes  lovingly  to  the  face  of  the  man.  "The 
Hereafter  is  the  same  as  Here,  only  larger;  as 
things  grown  are  larger  than  things  ungrown. 
The  Future  is  to  the  Present  what  the  river  is  to 
the  stream,  what  the  stream  is  to  the  fountain,  —  it 
is  the  flowing  out  and  the  flowing  on,  —  the  widen 
ing  and  the  deepening  of  what  is." 

"Is  there  no  gap,  no  breakage,  no  chasm  or 
•ni If  between  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter?"  asked 

O 

the  man. 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "there  is  no  gap,  nor 
chasm,  nor  gulf,  but  continuity  of  progress  and  per- 


Who  Was  He  187 

feet  sequence.  The  connections  between  the 
Known  and  the  Unknown  are  perfect.  The  one 
does  not  end  and  the  other  begin.  Time  is  the 
beginning  of  eternity  ;  and  the  brief  time  that  men 
call  a  day  is  only  a  fraction  of  endlessness." 

"There  is  no  end  to  life,  then?"  queried  the 
man. 

"End  to  life!"  exclaimed  the  girl.     "How  can 

O 

life  end?  Life  changes  its  form,  its  embodiment, 
the  location  of  its  residence  ;  but  life  is  the  breath 
of  God  and  when  once  breathed  into  the  universe 
and  it  has  taken  form  and  made  for  itself  expres 
sion,  who  may  annihilate  it?  Who  may  take  it  out 
of  existence?  No,  master,  there  is  no  end  to  life." 
"It  is  a  sublime  faith,"  said  the  man,  "and  I 
have  proclaimed  it  unto  many  ;  but  few  have  been 
great  enough  to  receive  the  doctrine  as  a  verity. 
In  theory  they  have  received  it ;  but  their  super 
stition  has  robbed  them  of  its  mighty  consolations.' 
But  if  we  do  not  die,  but  only  pass  forward  as  men 
go  out  of  a  city's  gate  along  a  road  that  has  no 
end,  what  fate  befalls  them?  Does  a  change  of 
nature  come  to  them?" 


1 88  mo  Was  He 

"Only  such  as  comes  through  growth,"  ans 
wered  the  girl. 

"Shall  I  be  just  as  I  am  when  I  have  passed 
into  the  great  future?"  he  asked. 

"You  will  be  the  same,"  answered  the  girl, 
"only  more  abundantly  yourself.  We  are  all  our 
life  looking  for  ourselves,"  continued  the  girl, 
"and  few,  if  any,  find  themselves  until  they 
die." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  the  man.  "I  know 
the  Lord  is  speaking  through  you,  for  you  are 
uttering  truths  so  great  that  at  the  utterance  they 
seem  mysteries.  Explain  as  the  teacher  explains 
to  the  child  she  is  trying  to  teach." 

"I  mean,"  answered  the  girl,  "that  death  is  an 
enlightenment  and  a  discovery.  It  will  give  us 
revelations  of  ourselves  ;  for  never  do  we  find  Him 
save  as  we  find  Him  in  His,  and  we  are  His.  You 
wrill  not  kno\v  who  and  what  you  are  until  you  get 
far  enough  ahead,  my  master,  to  look  back  upon 
yourself.  We  must  go  up  and  go  on  a  long  way 
before  we  know  what  we  are  now." 

Here  the  conversation  paused  for  a  while    and 


Who  Was  He  189 

nothing  disturbed  the  profound  silence  but  the  roar 
of  the  rapids  whose  ceaseless  sound  swelled  and 
sank  in  the  silence  like  the  waves  of  the  sea.  At 
length  the  man  said,  "Have  you  thought  of  the 
land  ahead?  Is  it  real?  And  where  is  it,  and 
what  the  life  lived  there?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  such  questions,"  answered 
the  girl,  "when  you  know  that  I  have  thought 
only  as  you  have  taught  me  to  think,  am  but  repeat 
ing  the  faith  I  learned  from  your  lips?  Surely, 
there  is  a  land  ahead,  or  rather  many  lands, — lands 
and  seas  and  blessed  islands  in  the  seas  where  the 
blessed  live ;  and  loves  and  lovers  and  homes 
exquisitely  and  endlessly  peaceful  are  there ;  and 
men  who  have  grown  nobler  than  they  were  here ; 
and  women,  far  sweeter  than  their  short  life  here 
might  make  them,  live  and  love  in  the  lands 
ahead." 

The  girl  spoke  low  but  earnestly,  and  her  words 
sounded  on  the  silent  air  like  softly-breathed  music, 
so  much  did  her  sweet  self  possess  her  words. 
And  the  man  listened  as  men  listen  to  music  when 
it  comes  softly  and  sweetly  to  their  ears. 


190  Who   Was  He 

"Mary,"  said  the  man,  "you  make  the  life 
ahead  seem  so  sweet  that  I  shrink  from  entering  it, 
lest  by  so  doing  I  escape  the  punishment  for  my 
sin  I  would  fain  inflict  upon  myself." 

"Oh,  master!"  exclaimed  the  girl,  "you  do 
mistake ;  for  though  I  do  believe  all  I  have  said 
and  would  trust  myself  to  the  far  future  as  young 
eagles  trust  themselves  to  the  warm  air  when  they 
have  grown  equal  to  the  joy  of  flight,  yet  the  life 
of  this  earth  is  sweet,  so  sweet  when  the  heart  is 
satisfied  that  one  might  fear  to  exchange  it  for 
another  as  one  fears  to  part  with  what  fully  satis 
fies,  even  though  the  promise  of  more  abundant 
things  is  sure  as  God.  It  is  sweet  to  breathe  the 
airs  of  the  earth  as  health  receives  them.  'Tis 
sweet  to  live  and  love  and  serve  in  loving  and 

O 

find  your  happiness  in  giving  it.  'Tis  sweet  to 
teacli  and  guide  men  up  and  on  to  wider  know 
ledge  and  nobler  living,  —  to  make  them  gentler 
and  finer  in  their  thoughts  and  happier-hearted  ; 
and  oh,  my  master,  'tis  sweet  to  live  with  one  you 
love ;  be  unto  him  a  new  life  daily,  and  see  him 
grow  in  your  growth,  matching  it,  and  so  go  on  in 


Who  Was  lie  191 

that  perfect  companionship  that  the  future  may 
give  to  us  as  the  highest  fortune,  and,  having 
given,  has  given  its  best  and  all." 

"You  shall  live,"  answered  the  man,  "you  shall 
live  and  have  as  you  deserve,  dear  girl ;  and  if  I 
have  taught  you  aught  which,  being  known,  has 
made  or  shall  make  your  life  on  earth  sweeter, 
take  it  as  my  legacy  to  you.  I  had  thought  to 
leave  you  something  more,  perhaps  something 
better,  but  that  is  past." 

"I  will  not  take  your  legacy  and  stay,"  ans 
wered  the  girl,  "  I  will  rather  take  it  and  go  with 
you,  that  where  you  are  I  may  be  with  you.  You 
have  promised  nothing  and  I  want  no  promise.  I 
have  only  asked  one  thing  and  only  one  thing  now 
do  I  ask,  and  that  you  will  not  hold  from  me,  for  I 
have  earned  it,  earned  it  by  patient  serving  and  by 
growth  that  you  krflbw  came  from  you." 

"What  is  it  that  you  ask?  Tell  me,"  replied  the 
man,  "for  you  shall  have  it  if  it  be  in  the  power  of 
my  giving." 

"Companionship,"  answered  the  girl,  —  "the 
companionship  of  service.  My  mind  must  serve 


192  Who  Was  He 

your  mind  ;  for  only  so  may  it  find  its  growth  for 
which  it  longs.  You  have  led  me  from  darkness 
to  light ;  and  into  what  future  light  you  advance  I 
must  enter  too.  I  love  you  as  women  love  men  ; 
but  I  love  you  more  than  that.  I  love  you  for 
what  you  are  separate  from  what  you  can  ever  be 
to  me.  I  love  you  as  a  mind  ;  I  love  you  as  a 
soul ;  I  love  you  as  a  spirit ;  I  love  you  with  a 
purity,  with  an  ambition,  with  a  longing  that  men 
cannot  interpret  and  earthly  relations  cannot 
express ;  but  which  God  understands  and  which 
in  his  Heaven  I  know  there  must  be  a  name  for, 
and  a  connection  that  is  known  through  all  the 
social  life  of  Heaven." 

"It  must  not  be,"  answered  the  man.  "I  admit 
your  claim  ;  but  it  must  not  be." 

"Why  must  it  not  be?"  asked  the  girl. 

The  man  hesitated  a  momeiK^  and  then  he  said  : 

"Because  my  future  is  uncertain  ;  I  dare  not  say 
what  it  will  be." 

"I  care  not  what  it  is,"  answered  the  girl. 
"Whatever  it  is,  that  I  share,  share  because  I  can 
not  help  it.  It  is  not  a  question  of  condition,  but  of 


Who  Was  He  193 

presence.  With  you  I  could  bear  all  misery  ;  yea, 
in  the  misery  find  happiness.  Without  you  my 
heart  could  feel  no  joy  throughout  eternity.  Mas 
ter,  my  master,  I  love  you  so  ! "  And  as  she  looked 
into  the  face  of  the  man  there  came  to  her  counte 
nance  the  expression  of  utter  devotion  ;  and  in  her 
large  eyes  tears  gathered,  and,  having  formed, 
from  them  slowly  fell. 

The  man  groaned  aloud,  and  said  : 

"Alas!  alas!  My  curse  is  doubled,  being 
brought  on  thee." 

"There  is  no  curse  on  thee  or  me,"  she  ans 
wered.  "You  were  but  mortal,  and,  being  sorely 
tempted,  did  a  wicked  deed.  But  no  single  deed 
can  change  the  nature.  You  are  the  same  great 
man  ;  great  in  your  goodness  as  you  are  great  in 
power,  and  my  love,  too,  remains  the  same ;  nay, 
master,  it  is  greater.  You  should  stay  and  live 
and  make  atonement  by  living  ;  for  you  cannot  live 
and  not  better  men.  You  can  do  deeds  that  would 
wipe  out  the  deadliest  guilt.  But  if  you  will  not 
stay,  —  if  to  you  it  seems  right  to  die,  and  if  only 
through  death  your  .sense  of  justice  can  be  met 


Who   Was  He 

and  yourself  find  peace,  then  neither  will  I  stay, 
but  go  —  go  where  thou  goest.  Yea,  I  will  sink  or 
rise  with  thee  ;  go  to  this  world  or  that,  I  care  not 
which  or  where,  if  only  I  may  go  with  thee.  And 
I  pray  thee  not  to  think  it  hard  for  me  to  share  thy 
journey.  Why  should  I  be  left  behind?  And  what 
might  I  have,  thou  being  gone?  What  pleasure  in 
all  the  world  could  I  find,  with  thee  out  of  it !  I 
have  no  home,  —  thy  presence  is  my  home.  I  have 
no  kindred  and  no  loves  await  me  anywhere. 
How  could  I  have,  loving  thee?  For  in  thee  I 
have  found  father  and  mother,  brother  and  sister 
and  all  sweet  relationships.  And  so  whither  thou 
goest,  let  me  go  ;  and  where  thou  stayest,  let  me 
stay.  Do  not  resist  me,  but  be  persuaded,  and  let 
me  die  with  thee.  So  shall  we,  passing  out  of 
these  mortal  bodies  in  the  self-same  hour,  be 
together  still." 

The  man  made  no  response  ;  but  sat  silently  gaz 
ing  at  her  face.  In  a  moment  the  girl  moved  softly 
to  his  side  and  took  his  hand  in  hers  ;  and  so  they 
sat  together  while  the  firelight  died  away  and  the 
darkness  enveloped  them.  But  through  the  dark- 


Who   Was  He  195 

ness  the  stars  beamed  mildly,  as  if  they  expressed 
the  sweet  mercy  which  the  imaginations  of  men 
picture  as  throned  above  the  azure  in  whose  blue 
field  they  stand  suspended. 

What  happened  farther  is  known  only  to  Him 
whose  eyes  see  through  all  darkness  and  to  whom 
the  night  is  as  the  day. 

During  the  night  the  trapper  started  suddenly 
from  his  sleep.  Was  it  a  woman's  cry  he  heard? 
Was  it  only  such  a  sound  as  comes  to  us  at  times 
in  dreams?  lie  listened  but  heard  nothing  save 
the  monotonous  murmur  of  the  rapids  and  the 
equally  steady  movement  of  the  night  breeze 
stirring  through  the  pine  tops.  He  listened  and, 
hearing  nothing,  lay  down  again  and  slept. 

The  morning  came, — -came  as  brightly  and 
cheerfully  as  if  the  world  knew  no  sorrow  and  the 
men  and  women  in  it  had  no  griefs.  The  morning 

"  c> 

came  ;  but  before  it  came,  a  wing  darker  than  the 
shadow  of  the  night  had  passed  over  the  world  ;  for 
when  the  trapper  and  his  companion  visited  the 
camp  beyond  the  balsam  thicket,  they  found  the 
two  lying  side  by  side,  —  the  girl's  head  on  the 


196 


Who    Was  He 


bosom  of  the  man  and  her  right  hand  lying  gently 
in  his  ;  no  mark  of  violence  on  their  bodies  ;  no 
instrument  of  death  near,  —  lying  as  if  they  had 
fallen  asleep,  the  man's  countenance  in  grave 
repose,  the  girl's  blessedly  peaceful ;  no  name  on 
either  ;  no  scrap  of  paper  that  might  tell  \vho  they 
might  be.  Perhaps  the  man's  faith  was  true.  Per 
haps  the  will  has  power  to  will  itself  and  all  of 
life  there  is  in  us,  out  of  the  body.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  the  trapper  and  his  companion  only  saw  this  : 
the  unknown  man  in  the  prime  of  his  strength 
lying  dead  under  the  pines  and  the  girl  in  her 
loveliness  lying  dead  bv  his  side. 

•/          o  */ 


24670 


:. 


A     000  677  857     5 


